


The Shade of Blue Which Kisses Death

by orphan_account



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coming of Age, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 40,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith has always been afraid of his powers. He meets Kotetsu, who teaches him what it means to be a Hero. A look into how their relationship might've developed had they met six years before the canon timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His first memory involves pale blue veins and the sound of choking. His mother, who held him to her chest to breastfeed, now claws at her throat in desperate, gasping wheezes. Her chest constricts and expands faster and faster like a fish shuddering on dry land as she turns paler and paler. Her eyes, bulging and rolling uncontrollably, become glassy and dull within the first five minutes. Tears drip down onto his cheeks while he stares, eyes blazing incandescent, as his mother mouths the words,

Help me.

Please.

 _Help._

She is found later that day, a slack, withered form curled around a crying babe. Sunlight glares through the windows, drawing stark shadows along the floor and up the walls, where deep gashes deface the pastel green-yellow wallpaper of the nursery. Trashed in the corners of the room are the splintered remains of a rocking chair and a drawer. As the babe wails and wails, a blast of frigid air slices into glass frames and cracks them open.

His second memory involves the warm hand of his father, who coaxes him into attending school at the age of six. He’s never been around other children — no one wanted to hang around a rumored NEXT after all — but his father insists.

He wipes his tears with a sleeve and follows the giant steel-toed boots of his father as they walk to school, unsure but hopeful.

That day in kindergarten, he smiles and offers to share his toys with another boy. The murky, tangled anxiety that sat deep in his stomach dissolves when the boy smiles back.

His third memory involves the playground, where his best friend Rick is being bullied by the upperclassmen. He watches as they make him eat sand by forcing him head-first through the dirty grains. He watches as the other students gather around, hushed and curious.

He doesn’t remember how the bullies end up with fifty broken bones between all twelve of them, but he does remember a rush of exhilaration and pride singing through his body as the trees prostrated under the swell of a furious wind. He does remember crouching next to Rick, who sits in the dirty sandbox shaking, and asking if he’s okay.

Keith can never forget those words:

“Monster."

and

"You _hurt_ people.”

That’s what he does.

A hand, which reached out to console a scared and helpless child, falls back.

After that day, Rick is no longer his friend.


	2. Chapter 2

For years Keith locks away any emotion — anger, fear, frustration, hatred — that could potentially lead to activating his powers.

Instead he smiles, learning the tricks to make it reach his eyes and appear genuine.

Instead he laughs, because he knows if he cries he will taste the whispering temptation of release and trigger the fury of eight thousand blades to silence the breaths of all those around him, watching as their faces contort in terror and repulsion at the mere sight of smoldering blue eyes. They would kneel before him, begging and sobbing and pounding fists against flat surfaces, until the last gasp of oxygen departed from their gaping mouths.

And here’s the terrible secret, sealed away as tightly as his emotions, and unacknowledged by his conscious mind:

He isn’t sure if he would feel guilty afterwards.

So.

The restless pins and needles running down his fingertips, he ignores.

So.

The heavy weight on his chest as he dreams of summer storms and pure oxygen, he ignores.

So.

The burn in the backs of his eyes when he awakens from visions of his dead mother and broken bodies, he ignores.

His father, too kind and too foolish, attempts to hold his son and cherish him. Every time they embrace, Keith places a tiny but resilient wall between them. He doesn’t hate his father, but he can’t ask, can’t reach out — not when he knows he’s committed crimes no one could expect a person to forgive. Not when the seductive breeze snakes around his neck and kisses his mouth, tempting him to cross the threshold once more.

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness, because it rests too close to condoning his actions.

So he spends the first eleven years of his life a quiet child, a well-behaved child, a gentle child. His father wisely moves them away from the kindergarten where the incident occurred, allowing Keith to start anew. He makes a few friends and learns all he needs to about blending in and appearing harmless.

Age twelve and five months, Keith Goodman finds he’s standing on the edge of a rooftop, one foot already off the ground. He doesn’t know how or why he’s up here — all he remembers is telling his father he needed to use the restroom — but there he is.

He closes his eyes as the breeze lifts his bangs away from his forehead and tickles his ears. He can smell gas exhaust and cooking oil rising from the city below. He can feel the air vibrating around the masses of bodies as they go about their daily lives. He can feel tensile strength of an invisible bowstring trembling, ready to snap and fire into the crowd.

When he realizes he’s floating in air, he panics. He clamps down on his emotions, forcing his thoughts to melt into oblivion as he meditates.

It’s enough for his feet to touch the ground.  
~*

 

On that day, Keith realizes.

He couldn’t suppress his powers forever, but if he could learn to control them, much like he controlled his emotions…

His fingers move one by one, slowly and deliberately. Each manages a small puff of air.

The captivating breeze, who flirted with him for all his life, hums as his fingers glide over ribbons of air. His forehead is cold with sweat, brows creased as he struggles against the surge of power building in his fingertips, which generates enough potential force to create a full-blown cyclone. Instead he breathes through his nose and chants under his breath a nursery rhyme — one he doesn’t remember learning but is familiar and comforting — until he can feel the surge dissipating into a benign brush against the curtains. Something inside him eases just a little as he figures out how to control the pressure of air.

He tries another exercise, this time facing his desk drawer.

In this attempt, the pressure is greater and the wind reaches out further, twirling and grasping at his school items. He manages, somewhat incidentally, to pick up the picture frame of his mother with the hand of a gentle zephyr and have it drop onto his open palm.

A young woman smiles, waves of blond hair framing a pale face and bright hazel eyes, as she holds a canary yellow onesie up to the camera.

He stares at the image of his deceased mother and thinks,

It isn’t redemption, but

Maybe it’s a chance.  
~*


	3. Chapter 3

Keith wakes up late one morning and has to rush to get to school. He packs quickly and runs out the door, leaving it open while his father sips his morning coffee. He’s about to catch his bus when he hears the shuffle of tree branches and the flutter of cherry blossoms. A petal lands on his cheek, causing him to look up.

Above him waves a canary yellow balloon, its strings twisted amongst dark bony twigs.

A child stands underneath the tree, kicking and punching and pushing and straining to release the balloon.

He doesn’t hear the engine of the bus roar to life as its doors hiss shut and its wheels accelerate. Instead Keith stares at the balloon, his fingers twitching at his side. Canary yellow bounces against the branches as tangled strings gently unwind on their own.

As soon as the strings come loose, an industrial truck rushes past, causing the balloon to fly upwards into an overcast sky.

The child shouts and runs out to the sidewalk to watch the balloon’s flight.

But before the sight of canary yellow disappears into gray clouds, a strong breeze rises through the treetops and curls around the ascending balloon. Canary yellow sways in the air, dancing a pirouette as it floats downwards. The child, open-mouthed and speechless, watches the balloon return to her outstretched fingers.

Keith’s hands shove into his pockets as he turns to board the bus. To his surprise there isn’t one. He smiles while he waits the extra thirty minutes for the next bus to arrive.  
~*

 

His father immediately notices the change.

Keith returns home from baseball practice later that day covered in sweat and summer dust. He greets his father with an irrepressible smile. He hasn’t been able to stop smiling the entire day. It made him stand out against the crowd of grumpy teenagers and sour-faced teachers, generating questions from friends and gossip from others.

“You look good today,” his father says. “Did you meet a girl or something?”

Keith laughs and shakes his head.

“It’s just a nice day,” Keith says before dropping his things by the door and changing out of his uniform. “Practice went great.”

His father turns to the stove, stirring the wok quickly as meat simmers between vegetables. Keith is too busy trying to remove his cleats to notice the extra brightness that warms his father’s eyes.  
~*

 

His emotions, once muted and artificial, spring to life once he learns to exercise control over his powers. He smiles more and doesn’t hide the hurt that creeps onto his face when someone insults his friends. People quickly adapt to his personality, charmed by the glow of its optimism.

However.

He still pushes down the anger and frustration and damning guilt that starves his sleep and pervades his thoughts during restless nights. After these episodes he crawls out of bed and fits through his open window. It faces the front garden, allowing him to gain coverage amongst the magnolias and marigolds. Once he successfully sneaks out, he takes a walk past his neighborhood, wandering deep into the foliage of the nearby backwoods.

There he stretches out his arms and illuminates the clearing with a shade of blue that rips open the tree roots and tears apart the weeds and thickets. He’s careful not to do too much damage — just enough to calm his heart and satisfy the aching in his fingertips.

When the blue aura fades from his body, he kneels on the dirt floor and picks up the ruined flowers and leaves into a careful bundle. He tries his best to tidy the area before dawn forces him to flee.

He stops going to the backwoods after two months.

One day, when he’s too worked up and too exhausted from prolonged insomnia, he loses more control than he plans and causes a great oak to crash against the ground in an ear-shattering quake, flattening the bushes and insects. Heart pounding in his throat, Keith quickly turns to assess the damage.

Effusive blue light shines on the vacant eyes of a family of robins, their breasts decorated with visceral scarlet. Other small creatures appear in a similar lifeless state, scattered or squashed against the oak’s powerful trunk.

Keith doesn’t return home until the morning sun is already at its peak. He takes his usual path back into the neighborhood, stinking of dirt and blood and vomit.

His father waits for him in the kitchen, sipping his usual cup of coffee.

He can’t muster the energy to rattle off an excuse and instead stands in the doorway, his expression dull and almost as glassy as the robins he killed.

His father sets the cup down and stands up awkwardly, using his good leg as leverage. He limps toward Keith and wraps thin, veiny arms around his son. His body is stiff and numb as his father's thick fingers grab his chin to get Keith to meet his eyes.

The expression on his father's face isn't one of anger, or even confusion.

Instead what confronts him is sadness drawn heavy with the weariness of sixteen long years. The arms around his body tighten, causing pale blue veins to protrude against pale paper-thin skin.

“You don’t have to go to school,” is all his father whispers.  
~*

 

On the day of high school graduation, a lean-faced man in a pinstriped suit introduces himself to Keith and his father.

“We heard about your remarkable powers,” the man says. He hands them a business card. “Hero TV would like to recruit you onto their reality show. If you’re interested, there’s a meeting held in two weeks in Sternbild. Since it’s a long ways for you two, Poseidon Line agreed to pay for any travel costs. This would be an excellent opportunity for your son, Mr. Goodman."

His father frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening.

“Are you trying to make my son into a ‘Hero’?” he asks. “Those walking, corporate billboards who compete for points instead of servicing the actual people?”

There’s more venom in his father’s words than he’s ever heard before. The man doesn’t flinch, and instead focuses his pitch on Keith only.

“My, my, that is a strong misconception,” the man says. “We want to show the public that those with NEXT powers can be trusted by doing good. In fact, service is the main component of the show. Points are earned when a Hero rescues a civilian or arrests a criminal. We simply reward those who perform this service to the highest level. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

Keith’s father snorts derisively and hands back the business card.

“Pretty words, but I’ve seen your show,” his father says. “It’s nothing but exploitative garbage. Let’s go and meet your friends, Keith.”

Before he can follow his father, the man slips him an extra business card.

“Please, think about it,” the man whispers. “For your future. I know just from looking at you that you’re a kind, courageous boy. Surely you would like to use your powers to help others?”

The card rests in the pocket of his jeans, hidden underneath the black cloak of his gown.  
~*


	4. Chapter 4

A small carving knife bites into old, rotten wood and nicks away the edges until all that remains is a firm core. Keith continues to whittle down the rough surfaces, curving them into smooth, rounded corners. While he works, his father and Miss Emily chat by the counter of the store.

“I have someone I can recommend,” she says. The beads around her slim wrists rattle as she writes down an address. “He’s done a lot of research regarding gene mutations.”

“It’s fine,” his father says, his voice little more than a sand-paper rasp. “I’ve told you a million times, Emily. _My boy is just fine._ ”

“But this might make your lives easier — ”

“You have a customer,” his father interrupts. He grunts as he pushes against his cane to stand. “I’ll be going on home. The petunias need watering.”

Curls of wood pulp litter the glass coffee table. He smiles at his father and waves, pretending he hadn’t overheard their conversation.

After graduation, Keith spent most of his time working part-time jobs to earn enough money for him and his father to continue living comfortably. Unlike his friends, he hadn’t bothered with university. He'd have to be away from his father, who needed someone to take care of him when his arthritis flared and left him debilitated. Miss Emily, an old family friend, is the one to suggest Keith work as an apprentice in her wood carving shop as it was right near their neighborhood.

This is his fifth month. He manages to carve some basic animal shapes using the tools she provides but struggles with symmetry and fine detail.

Sometimes, like now, when the store is busy and no one is looking, he rests the blade of his knife against the wood and watches razor-fine cuts sketch its surface. Little dust particles rise in the air as the wood appears to chisel itself into a more exacting shape.

“Keith?”

He looks up to find Miss Emily alone.

“Your father,” she says quietly. “You never do that when your father is around.”

The glow around his pupils vanishes in an instant. His fingers grip the blade as he stares at the marigold he’s formed in his hands. Miss Emily crouches by the table and traces the ruffled petals with a finger.

“You’re very careful,” she notes. “My knives must be useless to you.”

She smiles and gently pries the blade from his hand.

From that day on, she allows him to use his powers to sculpt wood. She teaches him what he needs to know about carving techniques and watches as he applies her lessons with solemn concentration. The gentle swish of air, so different from the scratch of metal against grain, predominates most of his work.  
~*

 

He returns home late on the eve of Christmas, his boots wet with snow and gravel. In his arms is a heavy brown paper bag.

“Dad, I’m home!” He cautiously sets down his gift before pulling off his boots. “Miss Emily wanted to remind you that we have to come over for Christmas Dinner.”

In the kitchen he can hear the frying pan sizzling and the pots whistling. The smell of baked apple pie hits his nose and stirs his appetite.

“I also got you a present,” Keith continues. He grins as he lifts up the heavy bag. “I think you’ll really like it.”

He steps into the bright, warm kitchen and finds his father sitting slumped in a chair with his eyes wide open. The thin, blue veins around his neck stand out like tree roots against bloodless skin.

The bag drops onto the floor, spilling wooden marigolds and magnolias across the tiles.

Keith doesn’t need to check a pulse. The flow of air — or the lack of it — tells him all he needs to know.  
~*

 

The permafrost ground crunches underneath the thick soles of his boots as he and Miss Emily walk forward to throw a small amount of dirt on top of the closed casket.

When it’s his turn, he lets the dirt fall from his fingers and pepper the fresh snow.

Instead he closes his eyes to hide the gentle aura that overtakes them.

With the help of a familiar breeze, a bundle of wooden marigolds and magnolias rise from his soaked paper bag and descend into the earth to join his father.  
~*

 

He can’t sleep.

He ends up halfway down the path to the old backwoods when he realizes he’s wearing pajamas and no shoes. The dirt between his feet is soft and spongy from morning dew and his face is oddly wet.

Keith returns home to find the front door is still locked. He must have crawled out the window again.

He enters the house as he left it, tracking mud and grass over his room.

Once he’s inside, he ends up thinking he should probably clean up the mess before his father tries to clean it up himself.

He picks up the items strewn over the floor so that he can vacuum. When he grabs one of his old photo albums, a white card flutters out.

It reads:

 _HERO TV: Using your powers to save lives and stop crime!_

 _Learn to make a difference by calling  
Hans Fritz  
293-932-3290_

He places the card on his desk and thinks back to the wood carving shop and Miss Emily’s mournful eyes. He thinks back to the withering garden out front, which despite his efforts never seemed to bloom after the most recent winter. He thinks back to the silence that deadens the air of every room in the house.

Knees slam onto the floor, a spine bending forward like the stem of a magnolia during a summer storm.

His hands pulsate with energy as he struggles against the desperate craving to fill the sudden, immeasurable emptiness with something, _anything_. The items around his desk tremble as he chokes back a strangled cry.

Perhaps half out of habit, half out of instinct, he mutters the nursery rhyme, repeating its cadence like a prayer until the trembling stops and the energy from his fingers abates.

Once the shade of blue leaves his room and returns it to its sun-bleached color, Keith finds he's clutching a small, white card in his hand.

He realizes.

In this house, all that lingers is the ghosts of memories and the musky, suffocating odor of marigolds.

He can't stay.

What he needs is a purpose.

A focus.

The card gleams in sunlight as a breeze lifts canary yellow curtains.  
~*


	5. Chapter 5

At age twenty-three and four months, Keith becomes a Hero.

Purple tights cling to his skin, allowing him to slip into his stylized armor with ease. His gauntlets, a translucent silver, strike light against the ceiling of his dressing room. A long white tunic splits at the center of his abdomen and brushes against his legs. A jet pack, heavy against his shoulders, gleams sterling-gold in the mirror.

He puts on the helmet last. It obscures his face entirely with its foreign design, taking away the vestiges of old fears and muted anxiety by swallowing the child and leaving behind only the tall, muscular frame of a young man.

Through the looking glass, he watches this strangely disguised figure lift his hands in the air, gloved fingers curling slightly.

A small whirlwind generates between cupped palms. A beating pulse, like the sound of blood pounding against ears, reverberates through flesh and into barely visible currents.

Nothing breaks. Nothing shivers against unexpected force.

Best of all, nothing radiates with a shade of blue.

He smiles at the masked man, observing how the currents die down when fingers splay apart.  
~*

 

He doesn’t meet the other Heroes until the show begins. Even then there is no time for greetings. Before he knows it, everyone splits into different directions — jumping, flying, driving, running — and it sets him into motion too.

A robber in black wheezes as he sprints to his car. Sky High catches up to the criminal, hovering in mid-air as his tunic flaps around his boots. Gloved fingers twitch in anticipation but before he can activate his powers, a flash of crimson cuts between him and the criminal. Smoke billows from the vehicle as flames lick its skeleton.

A blazing cape unfolds, revealing an athletic figure and strong hands. At his side is the robber, who wilts underneath the imposing shadow of the Hero.

“Fire Emblem, here,” the Hero drawls, angling his body so the cameras can capture a full profile shot. “I’ve caught the criminal heading toward Northgate.”

“There’s one more!” a voice announces over the radio. On Sky High’s monitor flashes a three-dimensional map of Turing Square. “He’s about to enter a jewelry store.”

The jet pack roars as he travels through air, bypassing traffic and weaving through towering buildings. Although he manages to arrive at Turing Square faster than anyone else from Northgate, he’s not the first on the scene.

Another Hero, dressed in blue and white tights, emanates a familiar glow as bulging arms rip an entire countertop from the floor. Wood crashes between the frightened civilians and the robber as a barricade.

“Don’t bother trying to run away,” the Hero says, pointing a finger at the man in black.

Thunder cracks the air and causes people to scream. A smoking bullet lodges in the white material of the Hero’s chest. He smirks and says, “Nice try, but that never works on me.”

Unfortunately, the robber grows desperate and fires not into the store but out the window. People in the streets panic, scrambling for cover as bullets strike the fire hydrant and trigger car alarms. One bullet ricochets back into the store, causing the robber to flinch and hesitate.

Sky High takes this chance to conjure a blast of wind that knocks the pistol out of the robber’s hands.

“Please turn yourself in!” he says. He doesn’t have a script to go by, nor do his lines sound as natural as the other Heroes’, but at least he hadn’t stuttered.

The robber tries one last time to escape, this time through the broken glass of the store front, but the other Hero yanks him by the collar before he can make it past three steps.

“Difficult, are we?” he mutters. He turns his head toward the van that arrives with a squeal of wheels. A camera glares from the van’s passenger seat. The Hero lifts up the snarling robber to his shoulder and says with a bored expression, “Yosh, I caught the criminal.”

Sky High, unsure what his role is now that the job seemed to be finished, decides to manipulate the breeze to clear away wood splinters and glass from the floor to prevent anyone from getting hurt. Policemen run into the store, chaining the criminal in handcuffs and dragging him away.

As the tension diffuses from the air, Keith discovers he doesn’t know what to expect as a Hero, despite his yearlong training with Poseidon Line. The situation had developed so quickly that he could barely react in time. His confidence staggers and a hard ball of anxiety settles in his stomach.

A voice interrupts his troubled thoughts.

“Hey, are you new?”

The other Hero is staring at him, hands on his hips.

“Yes,” Sky High says. He bows slightly. “This is my first day as a Hero. Pleased to meet you.”

Laughter bubbles from the man’s throat.

“You sound like a kid,” the Hero says. “You don’t need to talk so formally. I’m Wild Tiger by the way.”

He smiles sheepishly before realizing the other Hero couldn’t see his expression. Instead he offers a hand.

“Sky High,” he says.

“You were a big help there a second ago,” the Hero says, grinning. “Not bad, for a rookie.”

Surprised and struck by Wild Tiger’s amiability, all he can think of to say is,

“Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

When the last cameras shutter off and the crew disperses, a personal assistant guides Sky High to his dressing room. As they walk, he listens politely to the itinerary carefully crafted by the company. Being a new Hero meant heavy media coverage, pressure from sponsors, and constant training exercises. If Sky High isn’t in an interview, on air, or sitting in a meeting smiling awkwardly at his superiors, he’s in training exercises. Special coordinators teach him how to pose for the camera, how to appear exciting but not _dangerous_ , and how to deliver his lines.

He always fails to remember the lines they feed him, but tries his best to say what he could with enthusiasm.

It seems to work well enough.

He still struggles to keep up with the veteran Heroes on air, unsure how much of his power he could release without causing one of them to be caught in the crossfire. His reluctance is apparent, judging by the most current meeting he had with his boss Mr. Singh.

“I know you don't want anyone to get hurt,” says Mr. Singh. “But you shouldn’t let others steal the spotlight. I’ve watched you on camera. You have good instincts, good reflexes, yet you’re always stopping short.”

A blunt finger points to the television screen. It plays a recording of him and Crimson Ivy attempting to stop a man who had just stabbed his wife in public.

 _“Get away from me!” the man screeches, pointing a bloody knife at their figures. He wears a wrinkled business suit, tie askew and smeared with mud._

 _A blast of wind wrenches the knife from the man’s hand and suspends it in mid-air. Now unarmed, the man runs off, attempting to get lost in the traffic of people leaving one of the great concert theaters. Crimson Ivy darts after him, her hands growing into vine-like appendages as she runs. Sky High stands for a good few seconds before following._

 _But it’s too late. Crimson Ivy has her vines wrapped around the man before Sky High can even have time to appear in the camera frame._

“You see? You could have simply lifted the man in mid-air, separating him from the crowd, and caught him,” Mr. Singh explains. His thick voice is alive with impatience.

“I’m sorry,” says Keith. Out of habit, he smiles nervously. “I will work harder.”

Dark eyes meet his in a long, appraising gaze.

“Your points are mostly from saving civilians,” says Mr. Singh. “While we can make that work for your image, just remember you can’t win the title King of Heroes by saving people alone. It’s just as important to stop the criminals.”

“Yes, sir.”  
~*

 

Somewhat discouraged, Keith sits in the middle of Sternbild Park with an untouched sandwich in his hands. He stares at the wilted lettuce and tomatoes, wondering if he had really made the right decision by leaving home.

Just at that moment, he hears a child scream. He turns in the direction of the cry to find a small boy curled up on the ground, arms around his leg. The knee juts out in an unnatural angle.

“Okay, guys, give the kid a little room!”

The voice sounds oddly familiar. A lean man with dark hair and a striped flat cap crouches next to the boy, looking concerned. Parents and other bystanders stand a little further away, watching with morbid curiosity. The man chats with the kid for a moment, then with some light encouragement, short arms wrap around the man’s shoulders and cling. He lifts up the boy with ease.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” says the man. “Are your parents nearby?”

A tear-streaked face scrunches up.

“T-they’re at work,” he says. “I just w-wanted to c-come out and play.”

Keith catches the sight of warm brown eyes underneath the cap as the man smiles. He looks a little older than Keith, although it could simply be due to the formal dress combination of grey slacks, a white vest, and a black tie.

“It’s all right, kid. Just tell your parents next time, okay? I’m sure they’ll be worried about you.”

The boy hiccups.

“O-okay.”

The crowd parts as the man carries the boy away from the park. He appears not to notice them, concerned only for the welfare of the child.

Keith looks back down at the sandwich in his hands and thinks to himself,

 _That’s what a real hero must be like._  
~*

 

Discouragement doesn’t taper away in the following days. In fact, it becomes so palpable that the other Heroes notice.

“Hey, what’s wrong, rookie?” Wild Tiger asks. He adjusts his black cape while shooting a curious look. “Are you feeling down because of points?”

Sky High stands beside one of the white Hero TV vans, his head lowered and his hands clasped together in a tense ball. He can feel a familiar pulse of energy threatening to spill from his fingertips. It makes him edgy and wary of his next performance.

“I’m fine, Mr. Wild,” Sky High answers. He realizes his voice is too subdued to sound honest and winces inside his helmet.

“Man, you really do sound depressed,” says Wild Tiger. His blue mask doesn’t cover his mouth, which twists into a frown. “Are they being hard on you?”

“No,” Keith says. A small sigh escapes his lips. Maybe it would be better to talk to someone who has experience being a Hero. They might have some good advice. “They’re right. It’s my fault. I’m not doing as well as I should.”

“It’s only your first month here,” says Wild Tiger. Having fixed his cape, he folds his arms across his chest and leans against the door of the van. “Jeez, they really are riding the newbies hard. Look, you’re in, what, fifth place right now? That isn’t bad at all.”

“Thank you, but it isn’t really about points…”

Wild Tiger’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Eh? What is it then?”

“I’m not very good at catching criminals yet,” Keith admits. His hands continue to wring together as the pressure builds in his fingertips. “I’m afraid of hurting those around me whenever I try to use my powers to stop them.”

He can feel the weight of Wild Tiger’s gaze and tenses. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to confide in one of the other Heroes…

Suddenly, a gloved hand clasps onto his shoulder, causing the little gold cords of his epaulette to shiver.

“That’s understandable,” Wild Tiger says. “I know exactly how that feels. As a kid I used to hate my powers because I’d end up hurting someone.”

Keith’s ears prickle at the words, his attention sharpening.

“But someone taught me that my powers could be used to do good,” Wild Tiger continues. The jagged edges of his mask wrinkle slightly as he grins. “That also means you have to trust your powers, rookie.”

The hand slaps his shoulder.

“Don’t worry too much about messing up. I’ve got your back this time,” Wild Tiger says.

Before Sky High can respond, the other Hero walks off to greet his own bosses and cameramen, who appear to be motioning him toward a certain set location.

Keith watches Wild Tiger for a good solid minute before composing himself. A lightness spreads throughout his body, relaxing his muscles and calming the pressure in his hands.

He wasn’t alone.

Wild Tiger had his back.

A smile grows on his face, as well as a conviction:

He would do his best to make Wild Tiger proud.  
~*


	7. Chapter 7

In Sternbild, the air has a gritty, turbulent quality that causes the back of Keith’s mouth to itch and his eyes to sting. Unlike his hometown, the smell of grease and gasoline lacks the infusion of earthy gardens and crisp forests to moderate its sticky heaviness. Rather, it aggressively seeps through the cracks of his windows and trails his clothing like a clingy puppy.

As he lies in bed tasting the hazy cocktail circulating within his shoebox-sized apartment, he thinks of how the city seems to breathe as one throbbing entity, expelling and inhaling the congestion of bright lights and frantic lives at the pace of a marathon runner.

As he shifts onto his side, deforming the mattress springs and generating creaks from the bed frame, he thinks of his new job and the more than frantic pace in which it ran. He thinks of rippling capes, acrobatic bodies, and staged performances. He thinks of an easy-going smile and warm brown eyes behind a cobalt mask.

He doesn’t have much of a chance to interact with the other Heroes due to the show’s competitive nature. They appear uninterested in establishing any kind of camaraderie amongst one another — the exception being Wild Tiger and another Hero called Rock Bison. But even they distance themselves with adapted professionalism when the cameras engage and action commences.

So it still surprises him that Wild Tiger would flash him a quick grin and a thumbs up from the wreckage of a railway line when he arrests his first criminal. The escaped convict writhes in mid-air, demanding he be put down on the ground before Sky High has a mind to drop him fifty feet. He doesn’t pay attention to the angry curses on his heritage, preferring to focus on the pleasant tingle that runs down his arms from Wild Tiger’s encouragement.

They don’t talk much with one another, although Keith wishes they could. Sometimes, when he’s alone and shaking and filled with age-old doubts, he replays the scenes of their interactions in his mind to soothe the tremors in his hands and the tension in his heart.

The bed springs depress once more as he rolls onto his back to stare at the stuttering movements of his ceiling fan.

Maybe he could try talking to Wild Tiger during their off-hours. They might have something in common beyond their unusual powers and jobs. Maybe they'd wind up getting along so well that they could even become friends.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with Mr. Singh regarding the benefits of working in Hero TV. One of them included a full membership into Apollon’s Training Center, a high-class gym with personalized trainers and state of the art equipment.

A visual of Wild Tiger’s lean, muscular frame enters his thoughts. Keith’s body isn’t out of shape, but he doesn’t have quite the sleek compactness of the other Hero’s physique.

Maybe there’s a chance Tiger frequented the Training Center to stay so fit.

It doesn’t hurt to check it out at least.  
~*

 

Keith looks around nervously at the rows of complicated machines and weights, wondering where he should start. The only exercise equipment he knows how to use are also the most basic — the gym in his high school didn’t exactly have a budget for this kind of thing even for its prized athletes.

“Feeling a little lost, honey?”

A flush rises on his neck as he smiles hopefully at the man with cropped pink hair and full lips.

“Yes,” he answers. “This is my first time here and I’m not used to the equipment. Is there someone who could teach me how to use it?”

“Hmm, I’m more of a swimmer than a weight-lifter. You’d have better luck asking that husky man over there,” the man answers. He gestures with a delicate wrist in the direction of a tall, grizzly man over by the deadlifts.

“Thank you!” Keith says.

“Not a problem, honey. Just be careful about grabbing his bottom when he’s doing his squats. He gets a tad upset about that.”

Keith blinks, unsure how to respond. Reflexively, he settles on his usual reply:

“Thank you!”

Just as he’s about to make his way toward the weight-lifter, another man arrives with a bottle of water and a couple of towels. He stops short in recognition. It’s the same person he saw in the park a few weeks ago. Did that mean that man was also a Hero?

“Need a spotter?” the man asks.

Instantly, Keith recognizes Wild Tiger’s voice. His heart beats a little faster as a thrill skips down his spine.

“No, I’m about finished,” the other man responds. He lifts the tire-sized dumbbells with one final grunt before carefully placing them back on the racks. “I thought you were going home early?”

Wild Tiger frowns, his bottom lip jutting out in an annoyed pout.

“Tomoe said she was having a girl’s night or something. I’m supposed to go hang out at a bar until at least 4 am.”

The other man belts out a hearty chuckle.

“Did you do something to piss her off?”

“I missed her sister’s wedding because I was working.” Wild Tiger heaves a sigh and wipes his forehead a towel, running it through his dark bangs. “I thought it was weird when she didn’t hit me like she usually does when she gets mad.”

“I can hang out until at least two, but after that you’re paying for our drinks.”

“Oi! Antonio! What kind of deal is that?”

Keith doesn’t want to interrupt their conversation and edges away as Wild Tiger decides to pour his water bottle over his friend’s head.

He wanders over to a treadmill instead and does a few miles. His ears pick up the sound of laughter and verbal sparring when the two pass his station.

Well, he could always try next time.  
~*

 

It takes a week for Keith to find an opportunity to talk to Wild Tiger again. Oddly, he never sees the man actually working out. Rather the man appears on the gym floor as though he’s finished his regimen and hangs out with his friend instead.

Keith has been training, slowly adjusting to the different stations at the gym. Today he decides to focus on free weights by lifting the dumbbells and doing a few test curls.

He nearly drops one on his foot when he feels a brush of skin against his bare arm. Wild Tiger glances at him, muttering a quick apology, before reaching for one of the larger weights.

Before he can lose his courage, Keith says, “Hello, Mr. Wild.”

The man pauses, his fingers curled around the neck of a kettleball. Keith catches the sight of a green wristband, the kind Heroes used when they were on call.

“Do I know you?” Wild Tiger asks. The question isn’t out of rudeness but surprised curiosity.

“I’m Sky High,” Keith answers. He smiles shyly. “We’ve worked together a few times on the show.”

“Oh, you’re the rookie?” Wild Tiger’s hand leaves the kettleball and he stands up. “You don’t look that much younger than me.”

“I’m twenty three,” Keith says. “I started four months ago.”

“Ah, only four years behind. Man, I thought you were eighteen at the most,” Wild Tiger says. “Though you don’t sound like any of the brats I see in the audition halls.”

“Um… thank you?”

Wild Tiger snickers.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He pats Keith on the shoulder, an echo of their second meeting. “You’re doing really well, rookie. My boss says to watch out for you.”

Keith’s ears radiate with heat.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s nonsense, Mr. Wild! You’re an amazing Hero after all.”

“Hmm, you think so?” Wild Tiger rubs his chin, looking rather pleased. “Well, not that it matters. Points and fines are meaningless when you’re saving lives.”

 _Spoken like a true Hero_ , Keith thinks, admiration stirring in his chest.

“Ignore him,” a deep voice rumbles. Wild Tiger’s friend — Rock Bison from Keith’s guess — joins them by the weights. “Points and fines do matter. Don’t let this guy’s recklessness infect you unless you want a boatload of trouble to follow.”

“Oi, Antonio! I was in the middle of a conversation here.” Wild Tiger folds his arms defensively. “And you’re wrong, saving lives matters more.”

“Says the man with the nickname _Mr. Collateral Damage_.”

Keith watches the two men bicker for another minute, wondering if he should politely excuse himself. Right when he’s about to back away, Wild Tiger slings an arm around his shoulders.

“I refuse to let you corrupt the youth!” Tiger announces, pointing a dramatic finger at his friend.

Rock Bison rolls his eyes.

“You’re better off not associating with him,” he says to Keith gravely.

“Says the guy who begs me to drink with him every Friday night.”

They continue to exchange insults with Keith smiling awkwardly between them. Not that he minds at all, especially when the heat of Wild Tiger’s arm tickles his nape and shoulders.

“That’s it! Let’s settle this!”

Wild Tiger leans further into Keith, their faces inches away from each other. The proximity causes another series of interesting tickles to dance across his back. He stares at the playful gleam in the man’s eyes and mentally notes how they appear amber when the light strikes them at a certain angle.

“Rookie, you’ll be our witness. Tonight, we’re going to the bar and finishing this like men.”

Rock Bison raises a flexed arm, showing off the impressive size of his biceps.

“Bring it on.”

Keith knows he should probably ask exactly what he needs to be witnessing — hopefully not a brawl — but his thoughts scatter as soon warm breath brushes the shell of his ear.

“Meet us at 8 pm in Dante’s,” Wild Tiger whispers. “Don’t be late, rookie.”  
~*


	8. Chapter 8

Keith sits between two men as they slam down pint after pint of beer. Over the course of two hours, he watches a flush spread on Wild Tiger’s face as the man taunts his friend about his ability to hold his liquor. Accompanying the sounds of clattering glass and raucous conversation is the rising steam of alcohol and body heat, which mixes thick with the syrupy flavors of pickled fruit and salty nuts. He finds himself breathing a little faster and shallower than usual in the stifling environment. His eyes dart back and forth as he keeps track of the number of empty mugs quickly crowding their table.

“Could go ‘or ‘nother one,” Wild Tiger slurs. His eyes are extra bright as his lips curve into a sneer.

Rock Bison snorts and sloshes a bit of foam over his hands.

“You’re ‘bout to fall o’er, idiot. Like ‘ell you could.”

They growl and simultaneously chug another round. Keith has to reach out with his hands to prevent the other mugs from falling and shattering to the floor when their fists pound on the surface of the table.

“Um… Mr. Wild, Mr. Bison, maybe it’s better to call a draw?” he asks. “You are both doing very well, but it looks like there won’t be any room left for you to place your drinks.”

They blink at him, brows wrinkled in twin expressions of skeptical confusion. He waves a hand over their table, which is literally covered with dirty pint glasses. A few of them rest on top of others in a precarious angle as though about to keel over at any moment.

The awkward silence that his observation generates is swiftly broken by a feminine sigh.

“Honestly, what an example to set,” Crimson Ivy says. Keith recognizes her only from the way her hips sway with every step of glittering heels. She wears a short skirt and low cut blouse, much different from her usual green cat suit and thigh-high boots.

“Hello,” Keith says, smiling politely.

“Why hello, Sky,” she says. Then without warning, one of her hands reaches out to smack the backs of Wild Tiger and Rock Bison’s heads. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like that in front of such a sweet kid.”

“Ouch, what y’ur problem?” Wild Tiger clutches his head and glares at Crimson Ivy. “He’s not und’rage or anythin’…”

Rock Bison attempts to stand, a movement which makes him tilt immediately horizontal and crash against the table. It causes Wild Tiger to break out into peals of hysterical laughter and draws the attention of the other patrons.

“For goodness’ sake.” Crimson Ivy’s hands transform into long, dark vines and wrap around Rock Bison’s thick torso. “You two are worse than teenagers.”

Keith clears away the broken glass, apologizing to the bartender while Wild Tiger continues to howl and slap his thigh.

“Sky, I know this is probably not how you pictured spending a Friday Night,” Crimson Ivy says. Her vines tighten around Rock Bison’s throat and forearms. “As much as I hate to ask you this, could you do me a favor and take care of Tiger? I need to send this idiot home.”

Wild Tiger immediately stops laughing and pouts.

“I can go ‘ome by myselfh! Don’ need a babysidder…”

“I think you do.” Crimson Ivy shoots Keith a pleading look.

He nods and grabs one of Wild Tiger’s arms to sling over his shoulders. The man doesn’t complain, surprisingly, and simply leans against Keith.

“Mmm guessh I could use some ‘resh air,” Wild Tiger mumbles.

They step outside to be greeted by a dirty but cool breeze that brushes playfully against flushed skin and wet lips. Wild Tiger’s cheek rests against the curve of Keith’s neck, his arm dangling from a supportive shoulder. Although the air is no longer drenched in alcohol and humidity, Keith still finds it hard to breathe.

“Do we take a left or right?” he asks.

“Hmmmm? …right… I guess…”

Slowly, they make their way to Wild Tiger’s home, which happens to be a good ten blocks away. Keith’s steady footfalls guide the strange, dance-like stumble of the other Hero’s as they pass apartments and rows of old houses underneath the amber of street lamps.

It feels like an eternity.

It feels like a second.

By the end of their trip, the Hero seems to regain a tiny bit of sobriety as he pushes himself off Keith and stares, eyes focusing a little above his forehead.

“You’re a good kid…” he says. He pats Keith on the head, his fingers tangling in side-swept bangs. “A really good kid. You'll be just fine."

The door, engraved with the name ‘KABURAGI’, shuts in front of him. He hears through muffled wood the voice of a woman mixing with Wild Tiger’s baritone. He turns to walk away, his heart hammering painfully against his chest, as he tries to breathe in the late night chill.  
~*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** this chapter contains depictions of graphic violence.

It happens on a Sunday in the middle of November.

Snow melts into a spray of droplets against frozen armor, soaking his tunic and icing his skin as he forms a gust with cupped palms. The other Heroes scatter to corner eleven members of a busted child trafficking ring nearby an abandoned church. Their bright uniforms flash against white ground like streaming banners while they dance to the sound of gunfire and conduct a presto tempo of attacks, maintaining heavy assault to overwhelm the ring members. Blue light accumulates around the vicinity of the church, its pervasive hue staining gray stone walls while the air crackles with impatient energy.

Sky High adjusts the angle of his jets in his descent to catch the two traffickers who managed to escape through one of the alleyways. No one else is pursuing them— which means it’s up to him alone.

Boots land with a crunch against the slush of half-thawed ground. He’s about to release the pressure in his fingertips when the two men stop running, cornered by a dead end. They turn around, revealing a pair of emaciated bodies in their grasp.

They shove their guns into the mouths of blank-faced children, who wear nothing but tattered shorts and shirts. They scream at him, telling him to leave immediately.

“Let them go!” he shouts back. His fingers contract in warning, revealing a gust that twists so quickly in his palms that it generates a shrill whistle. “Let them go if you don’t want to get hurt!”

“Go fuck yourself, freak!”

He localizes the force of the gust, controlling its size so it knocks out one of the weapons. Not a second later he generates another disc of wind to disarm the other man when —

A shot snaps the air.

It echoes hollowly in Keith’s ears. Smoke writhes from a pistol and mixes into the cold.

He watches as crimson drips from blue-tinged skin and limp flesh, its warmth cooling against an aborted expiration of breath.

The trafficker immediately drops the body of the child, who crashes lifelessly into the snow with a gaping, glistening hole in her back of her head.

A spark ignites.

Without warning, the brick walls of the alleyway explode into a million fragments, darkening the sky with debris.

Spiraling currents wrench two bodies into the air, leaving behind one corpse and one child.

Invisible hands penetrate voiceless, convulsing throats to rip out oxygen and lungs and entrails. Viscera, pink and wet, splatters against rooftops. The force of wind cuts against gloved fabric, revealing flushed fingertips blazing with a shade of blue that pulsates and singes the falling snow.

It lasts five seconds.

Keith finds himself kneeling against the snow, his uniform covered in debris. The other child, whose life was somehow spared by luck, is nowhere to be found. The asphyxiated bodies of the traffickers lay in front of him, their flesh sunken and unnaturally flat, skin scarred into fibrous ribbons. Their mouths are open and bleeding.

Beside them rests a little girl, whose stares into the sky with a vacant expression.  
~*

 

Hero TV covers up the disaster with such expert speed that it makes one wonder. Keith’s lawyer and boss argue with one another as he sits numbly in one of the lounge chairs.

His hands are shaking.

The pressure won’t go away.

He sits for a little longer, his mind filled with nothing but the empty nonsense rhythm of an ancient lullaby.

It’s only when his hands start to twitch with uncontrollable violence that he stands and excuses himself. He leaves even as people call out to him.

At age twenty four and two months, Keith Goodman finds he’s standing on the edge of a rooftop, one foot already off the ground. He doesn’t remember how he got up here — he only remembers the sight of violated bodies and disintegrated walls and vacant eyes.

The other foot is about to slip off the ground when something grabs his waist and pulls him backwards with inexplicable speed.

Blue light shines against the backdrop of a cloudy night sky. Eyes, once a warm amber, glow fiercely.

“Rookie, I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Wild Tiger whispers harshly. “But it’s not worth losing your life.”

Wild Tiger releases his arms from Keith’s waist only for strong hands to clamp securely on his shoulders. The strength of the Hero’s grip is enough to bruise skin and muscle.

Keith finds he can't speak. Can't think.

Salt water lands between their feet.

Keith’s head bows as his breath quickens into little shuddering gasps, which become more and more erratic until they break down into strangled sobs. His entire body shakes, wracked with guilt and grief and despair. His torn gloves clench into fists, nails digging into palms and drawing blood.

All he can do is _feel_.

Feel the boundless waves of self-hatred and fear and anger burn off his body and poison anything in its vicinity.

Feel the endless agony of repeated mistakes and failures concentrated over twenty four years.

Feel the immeasurable monstrosity of the costs of his powers and the costs of human life.

It's all he can do to remain upright. The hands on his shoulders prevent him from collapsing, keep him grounded when all he wants to do is fall.

The blue aura from Wild Tiger’s body fades long before Keith is able to compose himself.  
~*


	10. Chapter 10

A glass of whiskey taps onto the counter, the golden liquid shimmering against low, hazy lights.

“That’s yours,” Wild Tiger says. He kicks back a shot of shōchū, eyes fixated on the vintage bottles lining the walls. “On me. After a job like that, everyone needs a stiff drink.”

Keith can’t help but note how the whiskey smells faintly of oak. He traces the rim of the smooth glass with his finger and watches as concentric ripples form on its surface.

They sit together silently. Wild Tiger doesn’t ask, doesn’t press for details, and instead simply orders more drinks. His presence is non-invasive, acting as a buffer between Keith and the undisturbed patrons of the bar. Because he’s there, Keith doesn’t have to force a smile on his face and squash down his feelings. He doesn’t have to prepare himself against awkward questions and curious stares.

In a bar like this, a gentle piano murmurs underneath the buzz of relaxed conversation. It’s entirely unlike the bar Keith had visited with Tiger and Rock Bison months prior. He would’ve enjoyed this place had the circumstances been different. But right now all he feels is a rubbery coldness on his skin and an aching dullness in his chest. He can still smell the phantoms of gunpowder and fresh snow and brick dust sifting through rich alcohol.

Wild Tiger glances at him between shots. It’s not a pitying look, for which Keith is grateful. The pain that hints at the creases around brown eyes tells him it’s an expression of understanding, of experience.

Maybe that’s why he manages to find enough inside him to speak.

“Mr. Wild…” His finger falls away from the glass to touch the waxy polish of a mahogany table. “Do you like your job?”

A shot glass halts against closed lips. For a second, Wild Tiger just stares straight ahead, lost in thought.

Then he swallows the shōchū slowly and deliberately, the prominence of his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp. Keith waits.

A soft, low sigh.

“I can’t think of doing anything else,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be a Hero.”

“Even if it means…”

Witnessing horrible events.

Messing up.

Letting someone die.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Even if it means alcohol and nightmares and people not understanding.”

The candidness of his response strikes Keith, sends a tiny spark of emotion past the thick insulation covering his skin.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” Keith whispers. His hands start trembling. “I don’t know if I can be a Hero.”

Piano music pauses for an intermission. The conversations around them seem to quiet down, leaving only the weight of his disclosure to settle between them.

Another shot lands in front of their table.

“Being strong isn’t what you think it is,” says Wild Tiger. He shifts in his chair to directly face Keith. “If you think it’s about not making mistakes and being perfect, you’re dead wrong.”

He looks up from his untouched whiskey when he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder. It burns where fingers meet his clavicle.

“You made a mistake. You’ll make a lot more.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth twisting in a grimace.

It had been more than a mistake.

He killed two men.

“What makes someone strong is admitting their mistake and moving forward,” Wild Tiger says.

He shakes his head slightly.

In the barest whisper, he confesses his sins:

“Mr. Wild, three people died because of me. It wasn’t a mistake.”

The hand leaves his shoulder, causing icy numbness to return to its spot.

“A-after the man shot the girl, I used my powers to kill him and his partner. I purposefully took away their lives,” Keith continues. Hot salt stings and blurs his vision. “I was so angry. I _warned_ them but they — ”

He forces back the tears by blinking furiously.

“I can’t forgive myself for taking their lives. That’s not something a hero does. It — ”

A small drop of water spills and mixes into tawny alcohol.

“The fact that you grieve over someone’s death makes you better than most,” Wild Tiger says quietly. His elbows prop against the counter, hands on his chin in a contemplative gesture. “I know some of the Heroes on the show wouldn’t give a damn about having killed people who participate in child trafficking.”

Keith processes the words and has to play with the implications before he has the courage to ask,

“Do you think it’s wrong to kill people? Regardless of their crimes?”

“Yeah.” Wild Tiger finishes off another glass, this time a brand of sake. “It’s not a popular opinion.”

Suddenly, he wants to come up with excuses, say their deaths were an accident, or that his grief isn’t merely a selfish byproduct of his pain, or —

Or anything to convince the man in front of him that he's not a murderer.

But he can’t.

He can’t pretend.

“Your powers,” Tiger says. “I wouldn’t want them. Your attacks get stronger depending on your emotions, don’t they?”

He nods once, eyes averted.

“I don’t blame you for losing control,” Wild Tiger says. “But it seems like you have a greater burden on your shoulders than others.”

Keith finds his throat is parched and sore. The whiskey looks almost inviting.

“That’s hard to bear alone.”

He takes a sip, the sour and bitter flavor astringent on his tongue.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

That almost makes Keith smile. Hadn’t Wild Tiger already done more than enough for him?

“You listened,” he says. “Thank you.”

The taste of whiskey fills his mouth as he finishes the shot.  
~*


	11. Chapter 11

The night sky has a jaundiced look, smudged with the pollution of lights from a city that never sleeps. A bronze clock tower watches over the crawling vehicles and flashing roads, a solemn and patient guard. As one climbs higher up the city’s buildings, the sounds of frantic sirens, blasting basslines, and delighted screams fade away. On the rooftop of one of Sternbild’s famous skyscrapers, one can find a little silence, interrupted only by the occasional drone of a passing helicopter.

A body hovers against the backdrop of the night sky, hand clutching a cap as a black tie and dark hair whip helplessly along with twisting winds.

Cramped, aching fingers relax one by one, letting each ring of wind calm and rejoin the atmosphere. Slowly, the body returns to the ground, feet landing gently.

“How was it?” Keith asks, a mixture of worry and hope mingling in his uneasy smile.

“That was nothing! I’ve faced worse winds back home during typhoon season,” Wild Tiger says. He attempts to straighten his tie, not noticing the top three buttons of his green dress shirt are open. Keith finds himself staring at the hint of bare collarbones and the curve of a slender neck.

“Do you think it’s really enough to keep someone immobilized?” Keith asks. He hides a wince for sounding so insecure, like a little kid needing to be reassured with praise from a teacher before moving on to the next assignment. It causes heat to expand underneath his skin and reach the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, it’s perfect. The only thing you’d hurt is their hairdo,” Wild Tiger says. He gives up trying to fix his tie and stretches his arms over his head. “Ugh, I’m starving. What about you?”

Keith blinks. His eyes track the clock tower automatically. It’s past eight, well beyond the time Heroes usually left their offices.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Guilt mixes with embarrassment. “I made you stay for so long — ”

Wild Tiger smirks and raises an eyebrow.

“No problem. You can pay me back by buying us some grub,” he says.

Keith smiles, relieved.

“Of course!” he says brightly. “What kind of food do you like, Mr. Wild?”

“Hmm, something with meat and beer. You?”

“I’m fine with anything.”

Wild Tiger walks to the edge of the rooftop and places a hand above his eyes, peering down at the city below. He scans the tiny squares of restaurants and dive in bars, which are probably mere inches of light from this height.

“Hmm, let’s see… what looks good…”

An uneasiness returns to Keith’s stomach, fluttering its wings anxiously.

“Mr. Wild? Maybe you shouldn’t step so close to the edge…”

A grin answers.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I just want to get a better look.”

As soon as Wild Tiger finishes his words a sudden and natural breeze sweeps the rooftop. Keith’s heart stops as the man trips and stumbles. Tiger’s body tilts forward just a little too far and a little too quickly, and before Keith even has time to scream, he’s gone.

Keith's eyes flare with incandescent fire as he leans over the ledge. With arms outstretched, he desperately generates two powerful gusts to reach Wild Tiger’s plummeting body. They’re seventy floors above the main road — if he can’t grab him in time —

He gasps, arms electrified with energy, as the shade of blue eclipses the night sky and swallows his vision.

All he can hear is the shriek of wind as it knifes his skin and stabs his chest. Hands contract into rigid angles, attempting to release more force, achieve more distance, if only to be able to, just this once, _save_ someone instead of —

Instead of killing them.

A scream tears from his throat, guttural and animal. He can feel the twin gusts spiraling, seeking, scouring.

Please, he prays.

Please oh god please reach him please don’t let him die please _save him!_

He feels the weight of resistance in one of his hands and immediately pulls back the gust, its length shortening like a spinning fishing line as panic and hope builds simultaneously in his heart.

It isn’t until something heavy crashes against him and knocks him to the floor that he realizes he’s managed to rescue Wild Tiger.

Both of them are left panting, sweaty, and disheveled. Wild Tiger’s hips press against Keith’s stomach, hot and solid, as their legs entangle with one another. He’s pinned down, two strong arms trapping his against his sides. Keith stares at the body leaning over him, expression glazed over in shock at the sight of Wild Tiger utterly and irrefutably alive. Their faces are a mere half inch from one another and Keith can almost taste the hint of coffee from the other man’s breath. The tips of their noses touch, and the sensation awakens him, jump starts his brain.

“Y-you almost d-died,” he stutters. Underneath his words repeats a silent mantra: _thank god he’s alive thank god he’s alive thank god he’s alive._

Inexplicably, Wild Tiger grins.

An affectionate hand grabs damp and tousled blond bangs, brushing them away from a cold forehead.

“I trusted you would save me,” Wild Tiger says softly.

A chilling thought registers in Keith’s still panicking mind.

“D-did you d-do that o-on _purpose_?”

The grin transforms into a sheepish smile.

“Like I said.” Their noses touch once more. “I trusted you.”

Keith doesn’t know whether to cry or punch the Hero in the face.

It was a test?

A stupid, heart-stopping _test_?

“Hey, are you all right?” Wild Tiger’s smile disappears entirely, concern wrinkling between his brows. “You look really pale…”

Keith hiccups as a hysterical sob threatens to emerge.

“…rookie?”

Fat tears stream over his temples as his chest shudders violently.

“Oi, Sky High! What’s wrong?”

Both hands touch the sides of Keith’s head but he’s already gone past the point of no return. A keening noise whistles against the night sky, followed by quiet sobs.

Wild Tiger struggles to remove himself from Keith. Once he’s free, he kneels on the ground and attempts to raise Keith into a sitting position to calm him down. He ends up forming a tight ball, knees tucked into his body, head hidden by folded arms.

A soft curse escapes into the air before Wild Tiger shifts and places a comforting hand on his back.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m really sorry. That was mean of me.”

Tears continue to swell and soak the fabric of his jeans.

“I won’t try that again, I promise.”

Keith can’t answer, his throat thick with mucus and salt as his entire body convulses with each sob.

The hand doesn’t leave his back, waiting for Keith to finish.

After several minutes the tears subside, leaving behind only the embers of old, impermeable fears. His arms loosen their grip around his knees just enough for him to speak.

“I-I really t-thought you were g-going to d-die,” he mumbles shakily. “E-everyone a-around me dies b-because of m-my powers — ”

Another curse flees from a mouth, surprised and regretful.

“Hey, Sky High. Look at me.” Two fingers touch his wet chin, tilting it upwards. Warm, brown eyes meet red and puffy ones. “I’m really sorry. That was stupid of me. I should have asked first.”

Keith closes his eyes and offers a tight nod of agreement.

“For now let's at least get off this roof. If you want, I can drive you home,” Wild Tiger says. He nudges Keith gently, attempting to get him to stand.

The stubborn remains of anger keep Keith sitting on the ground. He can hear the Hero scratching the back of his scalp, at a loss for what he should do next.

He expects Wild Tiger to give up, to go home thinking his co-worker was nothing but an overgrown child who couldn’t handle his powers. He expects to be left alone to drown in haunted memories and unresolved grief. He expects a number of things.

What he doesn’t expect is to be pulled into a tight hug, arms circling his feverish nape.

The words tingle down his back, low and husky:

“I know what I did was wrong. But you shouldn’t forget the most important thing. You saved my life.”

He shivers despite the warmth radiating from Wild Tiger’s body.

“Thanks. I really owe you one.”

He opens his eyes to find himself staring at the orange night sky. Wild Tiger pulls away, leaving behind a chill colder than the deepest winters. Keith’s hand shoots out weakly to grab the ends of a green sleeve. It’s enough for the man to pause.

He doesn’t want to be alone right now. Not when he’s almost lost yet another person.

Wild Tiger seems to understand and moves closer to Keith. They sit huddled underneath dusky clouds and unseen stars, gazing over a golden city they swore to protect. The clock tower marks each passing hour as the rumblings of the city rise and fall like the snores of a slumbering beast.

Together they wait for dawn to seep into the sky and stain it into a pale shade of blue.  
~*


	12. Chapter 12

After Wild Tiger tricks Keith into saving his life, something unusual happens.

He doesn’t notice it initially, too busy chasing after criminals and generating spinning discs of wind to really pay attention to the finer details, but after three months he finds himself in a private meeting with Mr. Singh, whose round and grim face breaks out into a rare and pleased smile.

“You’ve been doing very well lately,” Mr. Singh says. His short, stubby fingers clasp together, reflecting a silver-purple ring with the trademark Poseidon Line logo. “Did you know you’ve earned enough points this month to place you in third this season?”

Keith’s cheerfully blank expression causes Mr. Singh to chuckle.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” his boss says. “But keep doing it. It’s getting results.”

“I will do my best!” Keith answers.

“As reward for your excellent performance, Poseidon Line has decided to give you a raise,” Mr. Singh adds. His hands unfold to grab some documents resting by a cup of coffee. “I will also be promoted to the title of general manager.”

“Congratulations, sir! And again, congratulations!”

“Now, since I will no longer be your boss, we need to discuss some things…”

Keith listens with a wide smile on his face. He doesn’t really understand the intricacies of managerial positions or budgeting finances so he simply lets the words wash over him like a pleasant summer shower.

“…before I forget, there’s an after-ceremony banquet at the end of the season,” Mr. Singh says. “Normally, I’d be accompanying you to meet the other Heroes and companies, but I think this would be a good time to meet your new boss as well. Make sure to dress nice. Do you have a suit?”

Keith thinks back to his closet, which is full of purple tights, jeans, and white cotton shirts.

“No, sir,” he says. “Should I rent one?”

“Ah, nevermind, I’ll take care of that. Don’t forget to wear your helmet. It’s a rule of thumb that Heroes never show their faces to the public.”

“Yes, sir.”  
~*

 

Surprised delight lifts Keith’s spirits for the rest of the day and carries him all the way to his apartment. When he’s about to shove his keys into the lock, a belated thought hits.

For the past three months, his hands haven’t trembled at all.

How strange.

He opens the chipped and groaning front door, spilling light across the kitchenette. A small television set — a gift from Miss Emily before he departed from home — rests on the counter. He sets down his groceries and turns it on, enjoying the background noise as he prepares dinner. His late father taught him to cook when he was young, and although he’d never gotten the hang of making dishes taste exactly the same, he likes to pretend sometimes his father was still sitting by the dinner table, sipping coffee and instructing him on how to properly handle a wok.

While he grabs ingredients from the fridge, the television set blares upbeat music and the announcer yells,

“Ladies and gentlemen, before the season closes, let’s review the highlights of this season’s Hero TV Live!”

He glances at the screen to find himself saluting the public while rocketing in the air. They show a montage of him first, collecting clips of his arrests and rescues.

As he dices the potatoes, he watches how awkward and jerky his attacks initially seem. Each blast of wind is disappointingly modest, serving only enough force to knock a small weapon out of someone’s hand. He rescues civilians not with his powers but with his arms and jetpack.

The clip show continues, trailing his performance for the first half of the year, and he begins to notice the changes. His attacks are slightly bolder, the movements of his body smoother and more rehearsed, as he manages to arrest a criminal escaping from a train car. Vaguely, one can spot a hint of blue waving in the background.

They edit out clips from six months ago, when the Heroes stormed a churchyard in November. The show depicts him sending a powerful tornado into the air, but cuts quickly before anything grotesque can be caught by the viewers. The announcer crows with delight at Sky High’s “amazing” performance.

A short clip from five months ago reveals how timid and reluctant his attacks become after the church incident – each blade of wind is soft, short-lived, and almost invisible. His attacks could be mistaken for a stray breeze.

Another clip displays his performance from four months ago. The changes are noticeable: his attacks regain some of their boldness, although always carefully controlled.

Four months ago marks the time when Wild Tiger offers to help with his training. Keith remembers how offhandedly Wild Tiger makes the proposal, and how he almost missed it in his grief-stricken daze. He remembers how they meet on the rooftop for the first time, and how striking Wild Tiger’s light brown eyes appear against a black domino mask.

It is in their first meeting that Tiger asks about his powers, how they worked, what sort of things made them stronger or weaker, and Keith struggles to put into words something he’s only known intrinsically since he was a child. His mentor is patient, and they manage to figure out some of the quirks. For instance, the more tired and stressed Keith is, the colder and sharper his winds are. If Keith is in a good mood, the winds are warmer but stronger, like a humid summer’s tempest. He’s never thought about his powers in such a calculating way, only considered them dangerous when he could sense the growing pressure in his fingertips. But Wild Tiger explains to him that understanding one’s own power is critical before one could even think of using it as a weapon.

During that month Keith finds himself savoring each evening session. For a few hours, several times a week, he spars with Wild Tiger, attempting to grab the man with his chains of wind and lift him in the air. Wild Tiger is very agile even without activating his powers, using his surroundings to jump, dodge, and roll to avoid blasts of wind. He teases Keith, encourages him to attack with more spirit. Slowly, the old fears quaking in his fingers vanish beneath increased confidence.

Once his hands start to ache, and once it’s past eight, Wild Tiger ends the session. Sometimes he stays a bit longer to chat with Keith, asking him superficial questions like what his favorite food was or sometimes hitting him with a more challenging question, like why he wanted to be a Hero.

At the end of that month, Wild Tiger reveals to him his own experiences with his powers, and how out of control they were when they first manifested. He speaks solemnly about being suspended from school for breaking a kid’s leg, about how gangs would always chase after him to recruit or confront him, about how the other students kept their distance from him due to his reputation as a “troublemaker”. Despite all those things, Wild Tiger stayed sane by dreaming of helping others with his powers. He had Mr. Legend as his mentor, a guiding post for his youthful ideals and aspirations.

Keith is so caught up in Wild Tiger’s story that he doesn’t notice it is well past ten when the man finishes speaking. He’s moved beyond words, and can only express his feelings by pulling Wild Tiger into a hug. It catches the other Hero by surprise, causes him to chuckle and pat his back. Keith doesn’t care that it’s inappropriate to hug his mentor like this, not when he’s overwhelmed with the knowledge that someone _understands_.

The first day of the next month is the day Wild Tiger decides to jump off the building, plunging seventy floors into what Keith thought was a sure death. It is that day Wild Tiger holds him in a tight embrace and allows tears to dampen his clothes despite the freezing night’s temperature. It is that day Keith realizes just how much it would break him to lose someone like Tiger. It is that day Tiger thanks him and tells him underneath a stirring dawn,

“Sky High, your powers reflect what’s in your heart. If you want to protect others, don’t let fear cloud it. Remember how it felt to save someone, like you did just now. Keep that feeling inside you when you’re cornered, when you’re exhausted. Let it give you strength.”

Keith obeys, closing his eyes to recount how the desperate need to save a life overrode any concerns about the intensity of his powers, how his mind and body functioned in synchronicity to capture Tiger’s falling body and pull him back to safety, how enormous relief drained into his bones and nearly burst his heart when his powers succeeded to fulfill his prayer.

Later, when he stretches out his arms and faces down barrels of guns and blades of daggers, he remembers once more.

The clip show concludes by illustrating his performance from three months ago, which is the time Mr. Singh started to notice his improvement.

He moves in the air with a newfound elegance, his hands steady and relaxed. His attacks are no longer restrained but composed, meaning he is not so much holding back as he is carefully finding the right balance between force and violence. The number of criminals he apprehends spikes, as does his ability to rescue hostages and civilians caught in crossfire.

“Looks like we have a darkhorse this season, and his name is Sky High. He’s done superbly so far. Could he be a potential winner for Hero TV next season? Viewers, keep your eyes peeled!”

Keith finishes preparing the vegetables and meat. He listens as the announcer runs through the other Heroes’ performances. Once the stir-fry is crisp and ready, he sits in his chair and eats, watching with a smile on his face as Wild Tiger appears on the screen.  
~*


	13. Chapter 13

The banquet hall twinkles underneath polished chandeliers and flutes of bubbly champagne, inviting guests with small, round tables of delicacies that waft through the crowd smelling of rich sauces and crisp pastries. Keith wears a white tuxedo with gold trimmings, picked out by Mr. Singh himself, and is careful not to spill anything over it. He takes his cues from his boss, greeting the other managers and important staff of Hero TV with enthusiasm. While Mr. Singh chats with one of the executives from Titan Industry, Keith allows his eyes to wander around the decadent hall. It’s strange to wear his helmet in a situation like this, but it allows him to zoom through the crowd to find familiar voices and faces.

He manages to find Crimson Ivy first, who dons a feathery masquerade mask and an emerald evening gown. She notices his gaze and waves. He gives a little wave of his own before resuming his scan.

Although he spots most of the Heroes with ease, one appears to be missing.

“Looking for someone?”

The internal camera on his helmet's monitor changes perspective, bringing into focus Rock Bison in a black double-breasted suit. Keith can see his reflection on the Hero’s golden horns. The helmet jerks slightly to the left, indicating Keith follow Rock Bison to a more private area. He quickly bows and excuses himself from Mr. Singh, who is too busy chatting up with the executives to really pay him any mind.

The tap of dress shoes against silver-bronze tiles echoes through the corridor and halts at the back entrance. The cherry wood doors are slightly ajar, and Keith notes with appreciation the picturesque depictions of women in flowing dresses carved onto their frame.

They walk through the entrance, stepping into a garden bursting with bright flowers, which hang from dark green hedges and twisting vines. A white, knotted fence rises off the ground and arches over their heads, introducing a path lined with small stones. Keith catches the sight of magnolias and marigolds near one of the marble fountains.

Rock Bison pauses by the fountain, his hands shoving into the pockets of his slacks.

“Tiger said an emergency came up and didn’t bother to show,” Rock Bison explains. He sighs, sounding aggrieved. “He could have at least told me what the emergency was before leaving me to cover his ass.”

Beneath his helmet, Keith frowns, disappointment streaming down his veins like cool water.

“Do you know if Mr. Wild is all right?” he asks. An emergency could mean anything.

Rock Bison stares at him, at Sky High, with what seems to be a long, measuring look. It’s hard to tell behind the iron-clad helmet what Tiger’s friend is thinking during his inspection. Keith swallows, a little nervous and confused.

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Rock Bison says slowly. “I’m going to check on him later.”

A number of possibilities pop into his head at the vague answer, offering him dozens of interpretations on the word “emergency”. It could mean ambulances, heart break, bad news, anything. It could mean so many things that Keith knows if he picked one at random, there’s only an off-chance he’d be right.

“Anyway, the reason I’m telling you is because Tiger wanted to pass on a message. He said he’s canceling your training for the next month.”

The cool water that sloshed through his veins freezes into ice.

“I… I see,” Keith says. He attempts to smile, knowing that even when people couldn’t see one smile they could at least hear it. “Thank you, Mr. Bison.”

Another sigh rumbles from the man’s broad chest.

“I don’t know what that guy’s thinking, helping out his competition,” Rock Bison says. “But let me warn you that it’s a bad idea to tell anyone about it. Not only is it bad for your image – but it’s going to get Kotetsu in trouble too.”

“Kotetsu?” he asks, tasting the way the syllables fit in his mouth. Was that the man’s real name — his true identity? Keith’s heart races a little at gaining such information.

Rock Bison startles and raises his hands up to his chest.

“Ah, uh, f-forget I said that. I meant Wild Tiger. Of course.”

“I promise I won’t say a word, Mr. Bison.”

The Hero lowers his hands, shoulders slumping.

“Promise me you won’t say a word about the training either. When you give little speeches, or when you’re interviewed, don’t even think of mentioning him.”

“... but shouldn’t he receive credit for all the help he’s given me?” Keith asks. “It’s not really fair to make it sound like I achieved everything on my own.”

A frustrated groan rises from the other Hero.

“You don’t get it, do you? Our sponsors fund us and want each of us to beat the rest. The fact that Wild Tiger, who works under a different company, is helping _you_ perform better and increase the revenue for your company is incredibly problematic. Not to mention fucking dumb on his part.”

Keith is speechless as the implications shatter at his feet.

He lowers his head and clenches his fists.

“He was only trying to help,” Keith says quietly. “He wanted me to become a better Hero so I could help others.”

Rock Bison kicks one of the stones from the path and it crashes loudly against the marble fountain.

“He’s definitely an idealistic guy,” Rock Bison says. “That’s what people like about him. But I don’t want him to get in any more trouble. He has too much to deal with right now.”

Keith’s eyes burn onto the ground as his knuckles strain against skin and stretch the fabric of his gloves.

“I understand,” he says tightly. He looks up to face Rock Bison. “Please tell Mr. Wild that I apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused him. I never meant to… ”

Never meant to what?

Rely on Wild Tiger’s kindness?

Cling to Wild Tiger’s friendship?

“Hey,” Rock Bison says. His voice is less harsh, maybe even a little sympathetic. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m betting it’s Ko — Tiger that offered to help you out. He’s like that.”

The third stone smacks the head of a marigold.

“I just want you two to step back and realize what you’re doing,” Rock Bison says. “In fact, it might be best if you didn’t associate with him anymore.”

The fourth stone cracks the rim of the fountain, mirroring the crack forming in Keith’s heart.  
~*


	14. Chapter 14

Keith sits with his back against the metal shed of the rooftop, his jacket tied around his waist. The chill of nightfall prickles the hair on his arms and soaks through the thin fabric of his white shirt as he concentrates on the energy flowing between his palms. Blades of wind form from the center, shivering violently until he releases them one by one to slice through bars of steel and six-inch thick plates of weights. He manages to cut deep into one of the bars, but fails to do more than scratch the surface of the plates. He bites back his frustration, determined to try once more.

 _“You’re holding back, aren’t you?” Wild Tiger asks. He jumps off the roof the shed, landing with his cap tucked in his side._

 _“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Keith says. “I have to hold back.”_

 _Wild Tiger pauses, glancing at him with raised eyebrows and a hint of a frown._

 _“The purpose of this training is to teach you control,” he says. “There’s times when you need all the strength you have. Don’t think you’re only going to be catching petty criminals and lifting up pretty girls in the air. We have to help out with things like natural disasters and emergencies too.”_

 _Keith has yet to participate in such scenarios. The company hired trainers to teach him basic medical aid, had given him notes on evacuation protocols and what to do during disasters, but Hero TV’s policy indicated his status as a first-year meant he needed to stay in the background until they were confident he had enough training to balance out the risk of litigations. The church incident scared his bosses from pushing the issue._

 _Now that the first season is almost over, it’s very possible that Hero TV would call on him to help out with the sort of things Wild Tiger mentions._

 _He feels foolish for not having thought of it before._

 _“Hmm, you know your powers are incredibly versatile right? It’s almost annoying,” Wild Tiger says. “You could prevent things from falling, cut through a sealed off building, shield someone by making your winds strong enough to repel weapons. There’s a lot of potential for you.”_

Keith’s chest heaves as he tightens the muscles of his abdomen and forearms to generate sharper, stronger blades.

 _“Mr. Wild, do you really think I could do something like that?” He’s surprised and more than a little flattered._

 _“Of course. Look how much progress you’ve made in the past four months.”_

 _A hand slaps his back._

 _“C’mon. Let’s see if you can stop these — ” he opens up a box containing dozens of dumbbells “ — from falling to the ground.”_

Pieces of steel crumble and fall to the ground with a sharp rattle. He clutches his hands, hissing at the ache spiking through each finger. The aura surrounding his body vanishes as he takes a short break to regain his breath.

 _“Good job, you caught all but three of them,” says Wild Tiger. He grins. “Care to raise the stakes a little?”_

 _Keith has his hands on his knees, gasping for more air. He looks up through sweaty bangs and nods, not wanting to back down from a challenge._

 _“Try cutting them in half before catching them. On my count. One. Two. Three!”_

 _He straightens up and lifts his arms in the air, shouting to release “kiai” as Wild Tiger called it. His battlecry rejuvenates his muscles, erasing any thoughts of exhaustion as dumbbells crack in half and land on a soft pillow of wind._

 _“Nice, Sky High! Keep it up!”_

 _His throat is raw, his eyes watering from the effort. Sweat drips down his neck and disappears in the collar of his shirt._

 _“Okay, now lower them as carefully as possible onto the ground. Try making as little noise as you can.”_

 _He hears the instructions but his muscles give out before he could follow them. Pieces of dumbbells rain onto the ground with the sound of a train slamming against a brick wall._

 _His knees shake, and he can feel gravity embracing him, pulling him to the ground when Wild Tiger rushes to catch him._

 _“Not bad,” he says. Keith’s head rests against Wild Tiger’s shoulder. “That was pretty impressive.”_

 _“T-t-than… t-thank… you…”_

 _Wild Tiger chuckles._

 _“You’re a strange guy, you know that? Most people would be cursing or whining at this point.” His hand touches the back of Keith’s head, fingers intertwining with damp, blond hair._

 _“... try… my best… don’t… disappoint… you… ” The words barely make it out between gulps of air. His ribs stab with pain each time he inhales._

 _A grunt reaches his ears._

 _“You don’t have to worry about something like that,” Wild Tiger says. His voice is a little strange, not quite at its usual teasing or mock-irritated timbre. “I can tell just by watching.”_

 _The hand shifts to the side of his forehead, brushing away the sweat and dust gathered on flushed skin._

Keith raises his arms once more, eyes lost in a dazzling shade of blue.

Each of the hundred-pound weights climb up in the air until they hover a good six feet above his head. With one hand held still to keep them in place, the other sweeps across his chest, causing wind blades to tear from his body and penetrate the thick surfaces of each plate. He can hear the groan of metal as the blades gnaw through the material. He grits his teeth, the blaze of blue around his body intensifying with the effort.

As soon as each plate cracks in half, his hands quickly join at the center of his body, releasing a cyclone of wind to gather the material. He lets the cyclone spin and spin until the strength of its twists diminishes and allows gravity to slowly lower the plates to the ground.

When the last plate lands, he collapses to join disfigured metal, his back hitting the concrete floor of the rooftop. The orange night sky greets him with nothing but hazy clouds and polluted air.

Keith tries to smile, to feel excited about his progress. After all, this is something he’s done on his own, without anyone’s help.

But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Despite having managed to accomplish and overcome the challenge Wild Tiger set two weeks ago, Keith finds the talons of loneliness and longing sinking deep and tempering whatever pride and joy he could have experienced a moment prior.

 _“Hey, Sky High,” Wild Tiger says. “I’m starving. Want to grab dinner and a beer?”_

 _Keith’s breathing has finally returned to its normal pace, but the suggestion speeds it up just a little again._

 _“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Wild,” he says._

 _Wild Tiger throws an arm over his shoulders and leans against him hard enough for him to stumble sideways._

 _“Haha, you’re lighter than a paper crane right now,” Wild Tiger says. “I must have really tired you out. Let’s find a good buffet to fill you back up.”_

 _They leave the rooftop together, Wild Tiger’s arm still around his shoulder. Keith can’t stop smiling despite the soreness and exhaustion absorbing his bones._  
~*


	15. Chapter 15

There’s no word from Wild Tiger about training. He doesn’t know how to reach his mentor beyond a general company e-mail address, and after Rock Bison’s warning, he’s not sure if he has the courage to ask.

Now that the season has ended, the Heroes have three months to prepare for the next season. Keith takes classes in CPR and first aid, works out in the morning with a special instructor, then spends the rest of his hours either in his office or in promotional events for Poseidon Line. He rarely sees the other Heroes as a result.

For those three long months he thinks about the man with kind eyes and a teasing smile. He thinks about the way the city’s bright lights outlined a striking silhouette on the edge of rooftop. He thinks about late night drinks and soft piano music, and how they complemented the glow of cheerful company.

Some nights, he visits the bar in hopes of seeing a glimpse of a white vest and a striped cap. His search is fruitless, and he doesn’t feel like drinking, so on those nights he simply returns home.

There are other nights when he wakes up sixteen years old, frightened and disoriented. The pressure in his fingertips pools and sparks against the dark, throws him out of bed and into the kitchenette, where a slight draft reaches his hands and cools them, just barely.

It’s not enough.

He pulls on his jacket and ties his sneakers by the door before taking the elevator to the main entrance, which is illuminated by overhanging lamps but barren of any life. Keith strides through the desolate room and opens the glass door, savoring the bite of a night chill. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks, directionless and purposeless, following the trail of sidewalks and neon-streaked roads until the stalking footfalls of the past fade into the crowd.

For hours he walks through the labyrinth of a city in an attempt to clear his mind. In the distance ambulances screech and engines rumble, mixing with loud laughter and incoherent shouts. Teenagers and adults stumble out of bars and clubs, their clothing flashing in bold swathes of unusual fabric. People cling to one another as though they are drowning, and their mouths seek each other’s as though seeking for air. Keith ignores their presence, shoves away the memories of a forbidden dream and the desires it brings forth.

He only becomes aware of his surroundings once he reaches a familiar park. Against the tangerine bulbs of lampposts, the trees display their manicured appearance, perfect branches with perfect leaves in dark green spades. The smell of soil is faint, masked by alcohol and cigarettes and trash. He jumps over the chain-link fence and wanders through grass that’s been cut too short, too neatly. He thinks, perhaps for the first time in eight years, of the tangled and organic creature known as the backwoods.

How far has he come from that ignorant child who played with death? How much confidence can he have in himself when history warns him of the dangers?

He wants to believe in Wild Tiger’s words, in his assurances. He craves the mystical halcyon of salvation, craves the acceptance of someone who understood him, because it means being one step closer to calming a twenty-four year old storm.

His shoulders feel bare, empty, despite his jacket. He hugs the fabric tighter around himself, suddenly finding the chill too invasive, too harsh against thin skin.  
~*

 

When the new season begins, Keith can’t help but feel a little relieved, a little anxious. He finds Wild Tiger quickly on set, sees him in a tense conversation with a short, round-faced man. Keith maintains his distance, but watches in the corner of his eye as Wild Tiger storms away, his cape billowing behind him.

That evening, the cameras lock onto Sky High as wind blades cut through reinforced windows. His jetpack howls while his hands gather discs of wind to break through the locks on the doors. Frightened passengers huddle against the furthest wall of the train, staring at this strange, anonymous man, who rips apart the train's metal innards to evacuate them from a broken railway line on the third level of the city. Once the last hinges give out and the door slams against deformed rails, he reaches in with purple gloves.

“Please come with me,” he says. “You’ll be safe.”

He carries two people at a time, his jetpack adjusting automatically as he lands them nearby the emergency crew on the second level. He enters the train car to grab a woman and her child when vines wrap around the edges of the door-less frame.

“Need some help, Sky?” Crimson Ivy yells from below.

He ignores the disappointment of hearing her instead of someone else.

“Yes, thank you,” he shouts back. Vines reach out and feel around the surface of the train car until they find two young boys, who squeal with delight as they’re lifted off the ground.

With their teamwork, all of the passengers are safely evacuated within ten minutes. He’s greeted with the glare of many cameras and an ecstatic announcer, who praises the inter-generational teamwork of the veteran Queen of Heroes and the darkhorse rookie.

It takes over two hours for the press to settle down. He and Crimson Ivy walk toward their respective vans, tired from the media frenzy. When they hit the point where they’re supposed to divide and go their separate ways, he raises a hand to wave good-bye.

Crimson Ivy catches his wrist and pulls it down.

“Sky,” she says. Shadows darken her hazel eyes. “Do you think you could do this old lady a favor?”

“Of course,” he answers, thinking she needed something to drink or an errand to run. “What is it, Miss Crimson?”

“I would like you to talk to Tiger,” she says. Her lips tighten into a pained frown. “He’s been acting completely off ever since he came back to work. If you could catch him at the bar tomorrow night…”

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks. A cold, unpleasant sludge of fear develops in his stomach.

“It’s not my place to say, but I think he needs help. Bison’s tried, heaven knows, he’s tried. And I’ve tried, but you know how he never listens to me even when he’s in a good mood.” Her fingers drop from his wrist. “He’s been shutting everyone away and it worries me. He shouldn’t be working at all when he’s like this.”

“That’s terrible,” Keith says. “But… Miss Crimson? What makes you think I wouldn’t be shut away as well?”

Crimson Ivy gazes at him, her eyes soft and hopeful.

“He really likes you, Sky,” she says. “He talked about you a lot whenever you weren’t around. Said he hasn’t seen a Hero like you since Mr. Legend's era. He was so determined to turn your kindness into strength, saying that people like you should be the ones children admire. It shouldn’t be about who could play the game of numbers, or who knew the right people.”

Keith can’t breathe, overcome by an onslaught of shock.

“He thinks so highly of you. I bet you might be able to reach him,” Crimson Ivy says.

Her hand grabs his and squeezes.

“Please, Sky. He needs you right now.”  
~*

 

The bar is loud, excited, and chaotic. Keith steps in and dodges a bottle of beer that crashes against the wall and explodes with foamy liquid. He scans the crowd nervously, wondering if he’d be able to spot Wild Tiger in the mess of bodies.

Surprisingly, he’s not hard to find.

He and Rock Bison sit in one of the center tables, chugging away giant mugs of beer. The crowd chants and jeers as they slam their glasses on wood to begin another round. There's already at least a dozen empty mugs littering their table.

Keith takes a deep breath before pushing through the crowd to get to Wild Tiger. The timing is fortuitous — as soon as he breaks the circle, Wild Tiger slumps from his chair and nearly knocks his head on the ground. Keith catches him and holds him tightly.

“Mr. Wild,” he whispers. “Mr. Wild, it’s me, Sky High.”

Bleary eyes blink slowly, processing the words.

“Sky? Wha… here…?” Tiger mumbles.

“I’ve come to take you back home.”

Those are exactly the wrong words to say.

Wild Tiger struggles violently in his embrace, shoving and kicking in an attempt to get away.

“Don’t… wan’… home…” he slurs. He pushes too hard against Keith and tilts backwards, causing Keith to nearly fall over with him. Brown eyes are glassy and filled with a fear that Keith doesn’t understand.

“We should at least go outside. Get you some fresh air,” he says.

“Stay… here… drink…”

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says gently. “Please, Mr. Wild? Just for a minute.”

The Hero doesn’t move, his body slack from alcohol. Keith has to pull an arm around his shoulders to lift up Wild Tiger, who immediately collapses against him, half-falling, half-leaning. The heat from the Hero's body comes off in feverish waves and it worries Keith, makes him wonder if it's not just alcohol that's causing this strange behavior.

With great effort, he manages to get the man past a grumbling, disappointed crowd. Wild Tiger walks like a newborn deer, staggering with weak legs and a heavy body. Once they manage to exit the bar, the door slams shut behind them, muffling the cacophony of drunk conversation. He finds a bench near the sidewalk and guides Wild Tiger to his seat, careful not to walk too fast.

The air is cool and dry, wiping away some of the sweat gathered on their bodies. Keith is the only one sitting. Wild Tiger decides to rest his head on a warm lap, his body curled awkwardly across the remaining length of the bench. A breeze causes long bangs to brush to the side, revealing too-sharp cheekbones and the beginnings of hot tears. Keith’s heart leaps to his throat, stealing his voice, as he watches the tears silently drip across flushed temples and wet the roots of dark hair.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wonders if he should look away, pretend this isn’t happening.

His hands seem to know better than his mind, because a thumb gently wipes away the wetness from the corners of glazed eyes. It seems to bring Wild Tiger back, just a little, enough that he starts talking.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles.

Keith's hand jolts away as though burned.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was just — ”

“No, not that,” Tiger says. He blinks once, letting another stream of tears fall and stain his skin. “I meant why you're here. Why you came.”

Keith doesn’t know how to answer in any way but honestly.

“Miss Crimson said you might need me,” he explains. “I came to make sure you’re okay.”

A laugh catches in Wild Tiger’s throat, half-choked.

“That damn old lady… meddling in other people’s lives,” he mumbles. He turns on his side, nose pressing against Keith’s thigh. He can feel the slight sensation of lips moving against the fabric of his jeans. “Hah! Do I look that pathetic?”

It’s a strange question, full of self-deprecation and self-directed anger. It’s not like Wild Tiger.

“I think…” Keith begins slowly. “I think you look lonely.”

Tiger turns away from Keith’s leg, revealing red eyes wide in pained surprise.

A forced smile cracks on his face.

“Heh. Guess that answers my question…” he says.

“Mr. Wild, please don’t think of yourself this way,” Keith says. “You’re a wonderful person. You shouldn’t — ”

“Gone.”

That one little word, barely a sound, barely anything, a mere exhalation, yet it contains the soul of a haunted man.

“She’s gone,” he whispers brokenly.

Minutes stretch into a fluid, indistinguishable tide of tense silence. A crumpled newspaper flutters and catches on the leg of the bench, crinkling against the swell of an icy wind.

When Wild Tiger doesn't elaborate, doesn't speak, Keith asks, very quietly,

“…Mr. Wild? What's wrong?”

Wild Tiger stares straight into the night sky, eyes unseeing and unfocused. The words wisp from his mouth as though they were ghosts taking near corporeal form.

“…the doctor said she’d have a year.”

Keith closes his eyes and listens, sympathy throbbing in every atom of his body. He knows this grief, this loneliness. He knows too well the agony that eats one alive, that buries all the good memories and leaves only despair for a bedfellow.

“…three months. That’s all I fucking had.” A shallow rattle escapes from wet lips. “I couldn’t do anything for her. I couldn’t save her.”

The lump in Keith’s throat spreads and chokes him. He opens his eyes and finds himself stroking away the tears on Tiger's face once more.

“I couldn’t save her,” he repeats. The whisper becomes a soft, keening cry. “I keep thinking she’ll come back… every time I come home…”

Keith remembers wandering around his house, almost catching the smell of roasted coffee and marigolds, almost catching the sound of cups and plates clinking by the sink. He wraps his arms around Wild Tiger’s waist and pulls him upwards. The man curls up against him, head buried in his shoulder. Dampness spreads on the collar of a shirt as Keith holds him tight.

“I don’t want to go back. Don’t make me go back,” he begs. “She’s everywhere… pictures, clothes, even her perfume…”

Keith allows a few tears of his own to slip down his cheeks.

“Please… Sky… don’t make me go home.” The words scorch into his skin, stricken with fear and desperation.

“We can go wherever you’d like, Mr. Wild,” he murmurs. He swallows hard. “Anywhere. I promise.”

Tiger falls silent, shoulders shaking every now and then, as the wetness seeps through Keith’s clothes and trails down his chest.

With those words, they sit together, trapped in the past and struck by the present, bodies mingling with fresh grief and old scars. Even the poison of alcohol couldn’t numb, couldn’t make one forget. All they have is the understanding, the shared pain, to keep them together in an elusive, ephemeral moment where the comfort of solid warm flesh is, not enough, never enough, but _something_ , something better than the evisceration of loneliness.

And so underneath hidden stars and gray clouds, underneath the unforgiving cold of night, underneath heroics and appearances, underneath the illusion of infallible strength, all that sustains, all that lingers is the sum of memories and experiences, intertwined like their bodies, infused like tears against cotton and skin.  
~*


	16. Chapter 16

Keith sits in the kitchen with a block of wood in his hands. Shaved curls fall to the counter like snowflakes, masking the beige surface in mahogany. It’s already 4 AM and his hands are aching, his eyes dry and strained, but he continues to send microcuts of wind across the grain, forming the elegance of ruffled petals and a strong, narrow stem.

In his bedroom sleeps a man exhausted and reeking of alcohol. Keith checks in periodically, making sure he can feel the tiding pressure of breathing vibrating from the covers. He keeps a bucket, some aspirin, and fresh water handy, just in case.

With the bed occupied, there’s no place for Keith to sleep really, especially in the tiny closet he calls an apartment. Not that he feels much like sleeping.

As he works the blank slab of wood into a fine marigold, the first rays of dawn sneak through the dusty windows and step over his ruddy fingertips. He listens to the bright warbles of robins, captured just before the industrial city-beast yawns its great jaws awake.

His ears prick as soon as the shuffle of sheets escapes from his bedroom. The glow retracts from his eyes, revealing pupils as they return to a duller shade of blue. He sets down the marigold and tiptoes to his own room, listening anxiously.

He hears a groan, more shuffling, then the sound of something smacking against his dresser. A hiss, followed by sharp curses, causes him to turn the knob and peek in.

“Mr. Wild?” he whispers.

The man squints, looking very irritated and confused at the same time. He’s sitting up cross-legged, clutching his right elbow — presumably the one that hit the dresser by accident.

“…Sky High?” he croaks. The fingers on his elbow fly to his throat as he swallows. “Fuck. Where am I?”

“This is my apartment,” Keith answers. “Please wait here while I grab some water and aspirin.”

Wild Tiger closes his eyes and leans back against the pillows.

“Thanks,” he rasps.

Keith makes sure not to make too much noise as he maneuvers around the cramped kitchenette. He finds one of his better glasses and fills it up with purified water before slipping back into his bedroom.

Wild Tiger finishes the glass in less than five seconds, giving Keith no time to warn him about the dangers of drinking so quickly. He wipes the side of his mouth and hands the glass back before taking the white pills.

Wordlessly, Keith fetches more water, watching as Wild Tiger drinks greedily. It reminds him of last night, when the man just as desperately drowned himself in stout beers and heady spirits.

Shimmering drops of water spill from the rim and trace the prominence of a chin, landing on his blankets and darkening the canary yellow covers.

He waits patiently as sunlight embraces their figures, wrapping them in the promise of a new morning. The rays catch in Wild Tiger’s eyes, turning what was once a warm, vibrant brown into cold, flat amber. The difference is striking against dark hair and tanned skin, giving the man a feline appearance well-suiting of his title.

“Should probably get out of your hair,” he says after his third glass. He glances around Keith’s room with a wary, guarded expression. “Thanks for everything. I mean it.”

“Mr. Wild, you can stay a bit longer,” Keith says. “Today is Saturday, so there’s no rush.”

Cat-like eyes blink, black lashes accentuating their fair color.

“Saturday, huh? At least I don’t have to deal with the old lady nagging my ear off,” Tiger mutters. His legs unfold and swing over the edge of Keith’s bed.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Keith asks. “Food always tastes better with company.”

Tiger frowns, brows furrowed, as though remembering something. He gives a little shake of the head, clearing away whatever errant thought struck just then, before standing up and stretching his arms.

“Let me help,” he says. He doesn’t smile, but his mood seems to have lightened, if only a tad, from the life that animates his voice. “I can cook a mean omelette.”  
~*

 

Keith clears away the mess on the counter while Tiger examines the contents of his fridge. The trash can fills with wood curls, generating a curious look from the man.

“Is that your hobby?” Tiger asks.

He smiles, eyes downcast as he fingers the stem of a marigold.

“Kind of,” he answers. “I used to work as a wood carver.”

“Hm, really? Never would have guessed.” Wild Tiger finds a bowl to his liking and cracks two eggs with one hand, sending the sunny yolk into a bath of chopped green onions. “Did you carve that overnight?”

“Yes.” Keith’s not sure why he’s sounding so subdued, especially in comparison to Wild Tiger’s almost normal timbre.

“That’s amazing. Maybe I should ask you to carve something for Kaede.” Diced bell peppers sprinkle the mixture, vibrant reds and greens sinking into bright yellow. “Ah, right, you probably don’t know. Kaede’s my daughter.”

The news should surprise Keith, but it doesn’t. Tiger seems like the kind of man to make a good father.

“I can make a gift for her,” he says. “Does she like flowers or animals?”

The topic of Wild Tiger’s daughter seems to energize the man, bring back some of the warmth missing from his eyes.

“Right now she’s obsessed with rabbits,” Wild Tiger says with a slight smile. “I bought her a plush one, the pink kind. The moment she had it in her hands, she stuck one of the ears in her mouth and started chewing it like it was candy. Maybe that’s why she likes them so much.”

“That’s adorable,” Keith says. He could easily picture Tiger and his daughter playing with little plush rabbits. “I could make one in a few days and give it to you at work.”

Wild Tiger wipes his hands with a towel as he waits for the pan to heat up.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “I can always buy another one at the store.”

“I don’t mind, Mr. Wild. It’s good practice,” Keith says. He spreads blueberry jam over pieces of wheat. “I like to use my powers to carve things.”

They stand around the kitchen eating plates of eggs and toast. Keith regrets having only one stool, but Wild Tiger offers no complaints.

“Hey,” Tiger says. He chews the last pieces of toast, breadcrumbs and a smudge of jam sticking on the corners of his lips. “Can I watch you carve something?”

His ears heat up, a shy smile following.

“Of course,” he says.

They leave the dishes to soak in the sink. Keith spreads out some old newspapers on the ground, allowing them to sit facing one another. He has a block of wood about the size of his fist set in the center. Hands open up, fingers steady and sure, as a shade of blue overcomes them. A gentle twist of wind from below lifts the block in the air. He breathes through his nose, eyes narrowing in concentration.

The first blades of wind scratch into wood. His heart pounds under Tiger’s attentive gaze. He forces himself to restrict his thoughts onto the many invisible knives that transform a plain block into a miniature form.

A torso, then a head, begins to mold into smooth rounded curves. He separates the legs, drawing slender but fierce lines to indicate sleek strength. He works on sketching in the eyes, nose, mouth, then moves on to the tail. Wild Tiger remains silent the entire time.

The final blades scratch majestic stripes down the curve of a powerful spine, tapering at the end of a long tail before marking the hindquarters of legs in bold jagged cuts. Small, rounded ears gain a few stripes of their own, while the more precise blades sketch vertical stripes to frame a regal face.

When Keith finishes, he hands the miniature tiger to his mentor with an uncertain, but hopeful smile. The tiger stands proudly, its head raised, back arched, tail curved around its side. Underneath whiskers and a slightly open mouth, a hint of sharp teeth can be seen. Claws, not fully extended, emerge from wide paws.

A finger traces all these details, feeling the intricate ridges and contours of the wooden figure.

Keith waits, somewhat nervous by the lack of response. He keeps smiling, not wanting to show his increasing anxiety.

For a few more seconds the finger follows the grain of wood, before a palm cups the entire body into a secure embrace.

Wild Tiger finally looks up.

The smile that answers Keith’s unspoken question stabs straight through his heart and fills him with a strangely pleasant ache. The ache only worsens as Tiger brings the tiny creature close to his chest.

“This is really amazing,” Wild Tiger says, voice hushed in awed, childlike wonder. He seems to become aware of how he sounded just now and coughs lightly to clear his throat. He raises his eyebrows, expression turning into mock seriousness. “I’m keeping this, by the way. Consider it a repayment for all those months of training.”

Keith laughs, relief and happiness rushing to join the aching waves resonating throughout his body.

“Thank you,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Wild Tiger’s shoulders shake as he stifles a snort of laughter.

“What kind of person says ‘thank you’ for something like that?” he says, shaking his head. “You’re really a strange guy.”

Keith doesn’t mind the remark, too pleased by the fact that Wild Tiger liked his present. Together they roll up the newspapers, bundling the mess of curls. While they clean up the rest of the carpet, Keith catches the glimpse of a wooden figure disappearing inside a pocket. For the rest of the morning he rides the waves of giddy joy, eager to push away the unpleasantness that would surely fall with the approach of night.  
~*


	17. Chapter 17

Autumn in Sternbild is a flurry of crackling leaves and abrupt storms, sweeping slate-colored buildings and drenching unwise bystanders with fat beads of rain. Traffic congests, swarming cars and thick gas exhaust seething on highway lines. Trains and buses delay more than usual, their steamy windows and slippery floors greeting impatient feet. The conditions do little to dissuade the too-busy citizens and they do nothing for Keith, who sits at the counter of a bar, relaxed and sipping a glass of whiskey.

Tiger shows him pictures of his four year old daughter, who wears a simple white and pink dress that puffs outward at the waist. In her hair are two pale yellow ribbons, tied to form dark pigtails. She grins at the camera, displaying a perfect set of tiny white teeth.

“She’s the cutest thing, isn’t she?” Wild Tiger says. The expression on his face is that of a classic doting father. Keith hides a smile behind his glass and nods. “I see her on weekends and it’s incredible how much she picks up during the week. She already knows the names of all the animals in her picture books.”

“She sounds like a bright girl.”

Tiger chuckles as he opens up a picture of his daughter finger-painting on the ground.

“She’s teaching me a thing or two even. I didn’t know what an ocelot was until she pointed one out.”

“What’s that, Mr. Wild?”

“Oh, some kind of spotted wild cat or another.” He makes a small noise of satisfaction as he finds the right picture on his phone. “Ah, this is what I wanted to show you.”

He hands the phone to Keith, who stares down at the image of a sleeping child clutching in one grubby fist a wooden tiger-shaped object and in the other a corner of a terry cloth blanket.

“She really loves that thing,” he continues. “As soon as I showed it to her I was afraid she’d put it in her mouth. But now she plays with it all the time with Mr. Rabbit.”

Keith glances at Wild Tiger and jumps slightly at the sight of intense brown eyes meeting his.

“Thanks again,” Tiger says.

He can feel the solid weight in his jacket, reminding him of today’s plans. Now’s his chance.

“I-if you want, Mr. Wild, I made something the other day,” he says. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a gift wrapped hastily in green tissue paper.

Wild Tiger takes the bundle, peeling off the layers of tissue like an orange.

“Man, I don’t know how you have time to do anything but sleep and eat. This week’s been crazy with that terrorist group running around,” Tiger says. He grunts in surprise as the paper reveals a glossy baby rabbit with a little magnolia tucked behind one of its long ears. At about three inches it stands on its hind legs, the front paws raised to its chest as large, curious eyes gaze up to the sky.

“If you’d like to give it to your daughter…” Keith says. His fingers caress the side of his glass, feeling its cold smoothness.

“Wow, this is really cute,” Wild Tiger says. “It’s perfect. You could sell these things and make money, you know.”

Keith blinks blankly.

“Sell…? I just like carving things,” he says.

An arm wraps around Keith’s neck and pulls him downward. Tiger’s knuckles rub hard against his head.

“Jeez, you really don’t have a clue, do you?” Wild Tiger says. “People like cute things. You sell them cute things. Ching! You make profit.”

“But Mr. Wild — ” Keith winces as knuckles grind deeper on his scalp. “I’d prefer giving them as gifts to people I like.”

The pressure on his head ceases. Keith wonders if he just said something wrong.

“Ah, it means something to you.” Tiger’s voice deepens, a sign that he’s gotten a bit serious. It only lasts a second though. “Figures. You seem like a sappy kind of guy.”

“Sappy?” He’s not sure what Tiger means. He frowns as he tries to sort it out.

“Yeah. The kind that cries at movies and keeps all of his old girlfriend’s love letters.” The teasing returns with a smirk. “I bet you have a box of them at home right now.”

“I don’t,” Keith says. He’s never had any love letters, nor a girlfriend who would write them. He doesn’t say anything about movies though, having the sinking feeling that Wild Tiger would never let it down.

“C’mon, not even one?” Tiger asks.

“Not even one,” he repeats.

“Tch, you’re no fun.” Wild Tiger moves away from Keith to focus on rewrapping the baby rabbit. “Hey, want to come over and watch a movie? I bet I can find one that makes you bawl.”

“Mr. Wild, tomorrow is Thursday. We’ll have to be up for work in the morning.”

“That’s why they invented coffee! And we’re still young. Haven’t you pulled a late-nighter before?”

“Well…” Keith finds the clock hanging against one of the paneled walls, right next to a framed picture of a man with his prized swordfish. The time indicates it would be past midnight once they reach Tiger’s house. “…it does sound like fun.”

Wild Tiger crows with delight, raising a glass and nearly spilling some of his sake over the bartender’s bald head.  
~*

 

It’s strange walking side by side Wild Tiger instead of carrying him home. Keith enjoys the opportunity, the friendly silence that lounges between the spaces of their shoulders. The crispness of autumn and apple cider refreshes the air, playfully mixing with the scents of urban dust and leftover whiskey. He thinks autumn could be his favorite season, if each night could be so inviting and if he could be guaranteed the pleasure of easy company.

The neighborhoods grow quiet as they walk along the snaking path of clean roads. He can hear faint conversations and the scratch of skateboard wheels against pavement, but for the most part it seems the houses ease into a slumber, ready to retire with the day.

Wild Tiger doesn’t look like someone who plans on sleeping. Keith can read the taut lines around his eyes and the too-straight angle of his body as they walk ten blocks. He knows this insomnia, the kind that left him exhausted but too wired to do anything except pace aimlessly. He understands, and thinks perhaps being near someone is better than prowling through unfamiliar streets and trespassing closed parks.

They reach Wild Tiger’s house, which looks identical to the other stone olive-yellow columns within the complex. He can’t help but notice the “KABURAGI” sign is askew on a dark green door, hanging off what appears to be a bent nail. While Tiger fusses with his pockets to find his keys, Keith discreetly moves the nail with the push of a tiny, jet-like stream of wind to re-straighten the sign.

“Aha! Got it!” Tiger says. He unlocks the door and switches on the lights. Littered over tawny tiles are cans of beer and empty bags of snacks. Wild Tiger doesn’t apologize or appear embarrassed by the state. He simply kicks the offending trash out of his way, letting it gather against the walls.

Keith is almost tempted to pick up the entire mess and send it flying into a trash bag. It might be a lot easier for Tiger than having to clean it up himself.

“If you’re still thirsty, I think I have some beer in the fridge,” Tiger says. He rummages through the bottom drawers of the television cabinet, knocking over stacks of DVDs.

While Tiger finds whatever movie he deems suitable, Keith clears away the mess surrounding a tan couch. He sits, unable to stop himself from soaking in the details of the home. Picture frames cover the length of the shelf nearby the television, displaying a smiling young woman with long, dark hair and soulful eyes. He looks away, a burn rising in the back of his throat. He doesn’t like how the picture reminds him of another beautiful woman who haunts the edges of a cherished frame.

Instead he directs his attention to the rest of the house, which is surprisingly spacious. A large wooden staircase leads up to a second floor, showcasing two bedroom doors and a slightly ajar bathroom. It makes Keith’s own apartment seem like a matchbox in comparison.

“Here it is! If you don’t cry by the end of this, then I’ll have to completely reevaluate my people-judging skills,” Tiger says. He slips the disc into the media player. “Last call for drinks. I’m grabbing some vodka.”

Keith takes up the offer by asking for some water. He doesn’t want the buzz of alcohol streaming his veins when he would need to walk back to his apartment later.

The DVD begins to whirr and the antique television screen flickers before introducing orchestral music and the chanting of men, who call out “Old Yeller!” as a golden mutt appears on screen.

They watch together, Wild Tiger slouching against one of the cushions while nursing his vodka. He glances at Keith every now and then with an anticipatory gleam. Keith doesn’t really see what would be upsetting about this movie — it actually seems kind of sweet, how the family took in the dog after he rescued them.

As the film progresses, it begins to dawn on Keith exactly why Wild Tiger chose this particular title. He bites his lip, eyes widening, as he attempts to deny the very likely conclusion leading the story.

Just as the boy takes the shotgun and enters the farmhouse to confront the rabid dog, Wild Tiger presses the remote and turns off the screen.

Keith’s vision is swimming. At some point during the film, he brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them, while eyes peeked out fearfully.

“They didn’t really shoot the dog,” Wild Tiger says. “He got better and they lived happily ever after.”

It is a bald-faced lie, the kind that parents told to children.

Tiger scoots over to Keith and leans against him, shoulder bumping his.

“Didn’t I say you were sappy?” he says. “Look, you’re crying right now.”

He uses his thumb to wipe the tears forming in the corners of Keith’s eyes. It’s a mimicry of that night a month ago, when Keith arrived at a bar expecting a drunk man only to find a grief-stricken one instead.

“You’re crying,” Tiger whispers. He frowns, the tautness around his eyes increasing. “I’ve never met a guy who cries as much as you do.”

Keith wants to move away, far away from the touch of rough fingertips. He doesn’t like this kind of teasing. It’s not funny. It's almost mean-spirited.

Wild Tiger sighs and backs off, just enough for the anger to cool down.

“I wasn’t able to cry when my wife passed away in the hospital,” he confesses. He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes dull with pain. “I wasn’t able to cry at the funeral. I wasn’t able to cry at all until that night.”

The visions of guns and maddened dogs vanish from Keith’s mind, replaced by graveyards and haunted photographs.

Wild Tiger laughs, a quiet hollow sound.

“I thought maybe… if I could be around you I could cry again. Could deal with this like a normal person and move on.”

Legs slowly stretch out and unfurl, sliding down the seat of the sofa. Keith stares at the man beside him, suddenly noticing the bruises underneath kind eyes and the thinness of collarbones.

“I’m a terrible mentor, aren’t I?” he says. “You’ve done nothing but be nice to me, and all I do is cause trouble.”

“Mr. Wild,” Keith says. There’s a firmness to his tone that halts Tiger’s self-deprecating rant. “You are a wonderful person who is going through a hard time. Please don’t think of yourself this way.”

“You repeat yourself a lot, don’t you?” Tiger scrunches up his face. “I think you said almost word-for-word the same speech that night too.”

“It’s because it’s true.”

“Heh.”

Keith’s straying gaze revisits the rows of pictures standing against the wall. He thinks of a mother he’s only ever dreamed, he thinks of a father now resting in eternal peace. He thinks of how often he barricaded himself from a man who loved him unconditionally, to shield himself from the fear of abandonment, the fear of not being wanted. He thinks of how all those walls crumbled like ash, how he sent marigolds and magnolias down into a casket, leaving part of his heart with them.

“Mr. Wild,” he says. “I don’t think there’s a right way to grieve.”

He hears the hitch of a breath and the twitch of an arm. He continues, despite the soreness threatening to build and crush his lungs.

“I didn’t cry when my father died,” he says. “But that didn’t mean I didn’t care, or that something was wrong with me.”

The air in this house is heavy, languid, and stale. He wonders if he’ll start smelling the musky odor of marigolds once more.

“It still hurts to think about it,” Keith says. He closes his eyes as the images of a sunny garden and tangy coffee return with a flood. “But over time, the good memories of my father came back. It didn’t hurt as much.”

A hand grabs his wrist, loosely, gently.

“How did you manage?” Tiger's voice is weak and desperate. “How did you move on?”

Keith places his fingers over the hand clutching his wrist. He smiles sadly.

“I tried to find a purpose,” he says. “It didn’t work out too well at first.”

He thinks back to his initial days as a Hero, when uncontrollable tremors and overwhelming anxiety wracked his body and almost tore apart his mind with doubts and fears. The only thing that kept him going, that calmed the shaking and made him breathe a little easier, was the reassuring words of a stranger in a cobalt mask.

He locks his eyes with Tiger, who looks back with the barest wisp of hope.

“But someone was there for me when I needed it most,” he says. “Someone who listened, who taught me what I needed to know, who inspired me to work hard. I couldn’t have done it alone.”

Eyes widen, then fall half-lidded.

“Hey, Sky…” he murmurs. His hand is still on Keith’s wrist, hot and dry. “Do you think you could stay the night? I have an extra futon.”

Not expecting the invitation, Keith delays an answer by six seconds. It’s enough for Wild Tiger’s hand to leave his skin, cooling it immediately.

“Uh, t-that is… I mean… well, it’s already so late and you’d probably get more sleep just shacking up here than trying to make your way home,” Tiger says. There’s an unsteadiness to his voice that is new to Keith’s ears.

He realizes it’s nervousness.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “If you’d like me to stay.”

He smiles, putting Wild Tiger at ease.

For three and a half hours, they manage to snare the sly creature called sleep, dragging it in with the pillows and blankets. Tiger takes up the couch, wrapped in a single sheet that he kicks off during the night, while Keith sleeps on a futon. The cushy quilts and foldable pads of the mattress conform around his body, strangely comfortable despite requiring him to sleep on the floor.

In what feels like less than an hour, they wake up from half-remembered dreams to the blare of alarms. Wild Tiger nearly falls off the couch and crashes onto Keith, but manages to cling on to the cushions in time.

Both of their wristbands flash, urging them to hurry to headquarters to don their masks and helmets, to convert their bodies from those of fragile flesh into that of near indestructible idols. They leave behind bottles and conversations and the ghosts of loved ones in a mad rush to enter the heart of a city-beast that beckons them with marble and gold, promising innocent lives and reckless missions, all while provoking from two souls a most brilliant shade of blue.  
~*


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that was accidentally left out during the crossposting from LJ on Dec 29th.

A chemical odor, sharp and a touch oily, absorbs in Sky High’s tunic and never leaves.

He fixes his gloves, adjusting the fit between swollen fingers. His silver-purple helmet has a grainy texture to it now, stained with some kind of sticky ash from last week’s attack. The tip of his golden spike reveals spider-leg cracks running along its sides.

Wild Tiger is in the hospital along with four of the other Heroes who breathed in the toxic gas from the attack, immobilized while doctors attempt to clear the poison slowly eating away their lungs. It sends Hero TV in an uproar, leaving half of its competitors on sick leave while the media buzzes about ethics and human (NEXT?) rights.

Sky High doesn’t have the luxury to think about such things.

The attacks continue with a fervent pace, taking full advantage of the weakened defenses of the city. A significant portion of the civilians take up arms, or hide underneath the barricades of reinforced bunkers. Sky High sees armored cars joining traffic with increasing frequency.

He spreads out his arms, his eyes glowing with more than just his powers.

 _“Sky High, your powers reflect what’s in your heart. If you want to protect others, don’t let fear cloud it. Remember how it felt to save someone, like you did just now. Keep that feeling inside you when you’re cornered, when you’re exhausted. Let it give you strength.”_

Winds lash against the metal bars, bending and wrenching them apart to reveal a hooded group of individuals crouching inside a stolen bunker. Instantly, Sky High’s jets thrust upwards to avoid the swarm of scorching bullets that puncture abandoned cars and shatter the glass in windows and headlights. The air fills with the despairing wails of car alarms as he stares down below. The hooded figures wear crimson robes, making them easy to spot even at a great height.

He uses the momentum of his body, spinning in three quick rotations, to gather enough air and enough force to generate a full blown cyclone. He grits his teeth as the sheer power of the cyclone strains and squirms against his chest like a feral creature.

The robed figures point their rifles in his direction, locking onto one target.

But he knows no fear.

The blast sends the group flying in opposite directions, their bodies slamming against car doors or the walls of the gaping bunker. With the stroke of one arm, he gathers the weapons with a strong current, lifting them up high enough that no one on the ground could possibly reach them.

His tunic flaps furiously against his legs as he waits for the police force to surround the terrorists. Adrenaline consumes his blood and dilates the channels of energy flowing from his fingertips. He could maintain his hold on the weapons for five more minutes if he had to.

Thankfully, the police arrive before the last of adrenaline drains from his body. Beyond fatigued, his powers give out, the weapons crashing onto the ground in a haphazard pile. He turns down the pressure in his jetpack to reunite with gravity.

On his monitor, a message pops up in the center screen. It’s from his boss, Mrs. Lai, who informs him that Hero TV wants to do an impromptu press conference immediately. When he reaches the main street, away from the bunker and the chaos of civil service, the news stations of the city mob him, shouting questions and screaming victory. He strides past the lightning storm of cameras and the thunder of microphones to head off to the press conference. His legs are numb, his hands throbbing under the heat of overworked muscles.

That night he doesn’t have time to do anything more than soak his hands in an ice bath and sleep on the couch of Hero TV headquarters. Mrs. Lai is sympathetic and buys him Chinese take-out to eat before he nods off. She spends the night dealing with the press and negotiating with the producers of the show for higher pay and extra compensation for overtime work. He doesn’t care about any of those details.

He closes his eyes, feeling knives of wind that aren’t there.  
~*

 

Wild Tiger grins at him, his cobalt mask shiny and new.

“I saw you on TV,” he says. “Showing off now, are we?”

Sky High rubs the back of his helmet sheepishly.

“All I did was follow your advice, Mr. Wild,” he says.

The Hero barks a laugh, surprised and pleased by the remark. He looks slightly embarrassed too, a strange combination for someone normally filled with bravado.

“The quiet ones are always the flashiest,” Wild Tiger says. “Now let’s go and fix that stupid highway bridge.”

They walk together to the sight of damage. The handiwork of a rogue NEXT manifests in the snarls of suspension cables standing eighty feet in the air. It’s up to Sky High to try to untangle the mess while Wild Tiger uses his incredible strength to remove the giant boulders blocking the roads. While Tiger only has five minutes to complete his job, Sky High needs to be careful in case he snaps the cables and damages the integrity of the bridge. It requires the cautious but efficient concentration of wood carving.

Once Wild Tiger clears the road, he waits by the camera crew, arms folded.

Keith breathes a little easier as the last of the cables untangles.

“You know,” Wild Tiger says, as Sky High lands back on his feet, “you give you yourself too little credit.”

Keith smiles underneath his helmet.

“Mr. Wild, couldn’t the same apply to you?” he asks. “I heard from Mr. Bison that you left the hospital a week early to return to work.”

Wild Tiger scoffs.

“This and that are completely different!” He points a finger at Sky High’s chest. “Your powers have really come along. Hah, I’m starting to wonder if I should be treating you as a rival.”

“You should’ve been treating him as a rival from the start,” says a voice from behind.

They turn to find Rock Bison standing with his hands on his golden belt.

“Honestly, Kotetsu,” he says. “This kid’s already outrunning you.”

“Psh, didn’t I say points are pointless?”

“He’s in _third_ right now and it’s his second season.”

“Well, at least I’m not in sixth like a certain someone.”

“At least I don’t act high and mighty, Mr. Fourth Place.”

Keith spends his time looking back and forth between Wild Tiger and Rock Bison as though he’s watching a particularly vigorous tennis match.

“Jeez, shut up, you’re so noisy,” Wild Tiger grouses. He pretends to dig a finger in his ear to punctuate the insult. “Sky High, let’s leave this loser and go for some drinks.”

He follows Tiger’s lead and debates whether he should ask about staying the night. They’ve gotten into a pattern of meeting up at the bar every few days, and usually stayed past ten. Afterward, Tiger would invite him over to watch a movie, and oftentimes they’d get so tired half-way that Tiger started bringing down the futon before the opening credits even began.

“Hey! Wait for me!” Rock Bison calls out. His bulky armor clangs as he attempts to jog after them.

Wild Tiger grins and throws an arm over Sky High’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong Sixth Place? Having trouble keeping up?”

To his credit Rock Bison doesn’t take the remark lying down. He manages to smack the back of Wild Tiger’s head, causing the man to squeak with pain as he bends over.

“You hit me with _your armor_?” He hisses and straightens up, glaring at his friend. He points a finger at Rock Bison and says to Sky High, “Oi. You throw him off the bridge right now with that wind of yours.”

“He’s not a dog,” Rock Bison says. “You can’t just call out order like that.”

Sky High laughs and lowers Wild Tiger’s hand.

“Mr. Bison, Mr. Wild, let’s go to the bar. The first round will be on me,” he says. With his new, fat paycheck, it’s probably the least he can do for the two men.

“Aha! See, this is what I mean about showing off,” Wild Tiger says. He’s still grinning despite his fake-annoyance.

“Who cares? It’s a free drink,” Rock Bison says. “Sky High, you’re a man among men.”

Together the three Heroes leave the bridge, following the fading light of a rosy sunset as their costumes gleam against black roads.  
~*

 

Keith’s head jerks up to the clamoring of pots and pans. He finds Tiger in the kitchen busy cooking up breakfast. That’s when he realizes he has a blanket over his body and a pillow tucked under his head.

“Got a good night’s sleep?” Wild Tiger asks.

“Yes, thank you,” he says. He frowns as he tries to remember what day it is. It couldn’t be the weekday, judging by the relaxed and easy pace from the kitchen.

“By the way, I heard from Crimson Ivy that you were working seventy hours a week when everyone was hospitalized,” Tiger continues. “I also heard from my boss that the show didn’t want to give you any points during that time.”

“It would have been unfair to you and the others,” Keith says. He stifles a yawn. “Besides it’s like you say. Points don’t matter when you’re a Hero. As long as I could help someone…”

His eyelids grow heavy as a pleasant bath of darkness washes over him.

The pan hits the stove with a bang, causing him to blink.

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Tiger says. “But you should be careful not to let people take advantage of you. I heard your boss raised hell after what went on.”

“I don’t mind,” Keith says. He’s gliding back into the mild waters of sleep.

There’s a pause between the sizzling of eggs and bacon.

“You really shouldn’t,” Tiger says. His voice is strange. “People might use you for their own selfish reasons.”

Keith pulls the blankets up to his chin and sighs contentedly.

“Mr. Wild, that smells really good,” he mumbles. “Thank you for making breakfast.”

He falls asleep before he has a chance to taste the hot meal. In his dreams, he imagines a gentle hand touching his bangs, followed by a whisper,

 _“You know, you’re too kind for your own good.”_

There’s a fondness to the words that tingles his body and causes a floating sensation, as though he’s flying through clouds of cotton-fluff.

He smiles a little as he leans into the fantasy of a warm hand and a low, familiar voice.  
~*

 

Crimson Ivy announces near the end of Keith's second season her permanent retirement, generating gossip and speculations regarding who would be the new Queen — or King — of Heroes. Her keen hazel eyes stare straight into the harsh lens of the main camera, a slight and mysterious smile playing on rouge-colored lips.

“Who do you think will be the new champion of Heroes?” a reporter shouts.

“Are you retiring due to family matters?”

“Do you have any apprentices who will take your place?”

“Miss Crimson! What are your thoughts on NEXT rights in the work place?”

She taps the microphone with ruby-studded nails.

“As for the first question,” she begins. “I won’t name any names, but let me just say that there are two marvelous Heroes who I know will protect Sternbild and allow me to retire in peace.”

The press stir up a frenzy, more questions bouncing off the excited crowd as she takes a drink from her water bottle.

“Please let us know who these two Heroes are!”

“Are you withdrawing due to the fresh competition?”

“Their names, Crimson Ivy!”

She shakes her head, her auburn curls glossy underneath sweltering stage lights.

“If you watch, I’m sure you’ll pick up who they are,” she says. “Now I can take two more questions before I have to leave…”  
~*

 

Sky High hangs in the closet as Keith brushes his teeth. He watches the interview with Crimson Ivy on the thick television screen, a little sad to know he would no longer be working alongside her. She had a motherly attitude toward all the Heroes, particularly toward Tiger, and always looked out for others.

“The old lady’s finally retiring,” Tiger says from the couch. He drinks from a mostly empty bottle. “I figured she’d hang on forever.”

“How long has she worked as Hero?” Keith asks.

“Years and years. Decades, probably. She was part of the original group inspired by Legend,” Wild Tiger says. Nostalgia glimmers behind the swig of a beer.

“What happened to the others?” he asks. Foam trickles from the corner of his mouth.

Tiger shrugs.

“Some of them retired, some of them went on to help other NEXTs. I heard they’ve even built an academy for future Heroes. Heh, can you believe it?” Wild Tiger lazily drops the used bottle onto the carpet as he stretches his limbs and cracks his spine. “Not that a school like that would prepare those rookies for anything.”

Keith leaves the living room to rinse out his mouth. When he returns, he finds Wild Tiger standing over the drawer holding up one of the picture frames. His back is to Keith.

“Tomoe would have been sad,” he says. “Crimson Ivy was her favorite Hero.”

The picture frame glints olive-green against the light, revealing a portrait of a smiling woman. She has the same expression as Keith's mother — eager and young, glowing with a feminine charm that captivates any onlookers. He thinks of how happy his mother must have been, holding up a canary yellow onesie to the camera while carrying a child. He thinks of how happy the woman in the picture looks, filled with private love for a remarkable man.

“It’s strange,” Tiger says. His eyes are half-lidded, this time not with pain but with resigned longing. “Has it really almost been a year since she was hospitalized?”

Keith thinks of the hurricane schedule crafted by the producers, the long hours and secret moments when all of the Heroes slumped against chairs or walls, some nearly in tears from the exhaustion. He thinks of cameras and re-takes and paperwork, the mundane details that somehow stretch and blur time simultaneously. He thinks of how familiar Tiger’s home is now, having visited so often.

He knows the reason behind his visits, just like he knows the reason why Wild Tiger prefers to sleep on a couch rather than an empty bed.

He also knows Wild Tiger still wears the wedding ring around his finger and takes extra care to make sure it doesn’t slip off accidentally. Keith remembers once when hands slick with soap suddenly slammed against the sink and knocked over the dishes. He remembers how that night Wild Tiger nearly broke all of his usable plates in an attempt to find a small, plain band.

Keith used his powers to reach into the drain but turned up empty-handed. Wild Tiger cursed and kicked the cabinets, overturned cushions and swept bottles of beer across the floor.

They found the ring later resting on Tiger’s bedroom dresser. He had taken it off before going down to the kitchen to clean the dishes, but had forgotten he’d removed it.

He remembers the laugh, slightly hysterical but mostly relieved, as Tiger clutched the ring to his chest.

The picture joins the rest of the photographs.

“Hey, Sky,” Tiger says. “Do you ever dream of your father?”

In his apartment he has a bundle of unfinished wooden marigolds and magnolias by his bedside, the flowers a reminder of the nights he woke up alone from memories of Christmas. He carved petals and leaves onto the wood until he could fall back asleep.

“Of course,” he answers. “I used to wake up thinking he was still there, most of the time. Now it’s more like I’m visiting him in my dreams.”

“Visiting,” Tiger says. He continues to stare at the picture of his wife. “That’s one way to put it.”

He finally turns away from the photographs.

To Keith’s surprise, the man is smiling.

“I dream a lot about when we were in high school,” he says. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Like I’m back to being stupid and seventeen years old.”

Keith wonders what a younger Tiger must have looked like. Perhaps beardless and a little shorter. He can imagine a playful grin against messy dark hair and bright mischievous eyes.

“You know what’s even weirder? Sometimes I dream about you too,” Tiger says. He frowns and scratches his chin. “Tomoe and I would be in high school, and then you’d pop up all nice and sweet and charm her off her feet. Used to really annoy me when I woke up.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, focusing on the label peeling off one of the brown-tinted bottles.

“They’re nice dreams though,” Tiger says. “I wish you could have met her.”

On the television, Crimson Ivy rises and ends the press conference, ignoring the onslaught of fresh, anxious questions. She disappears through a thick curtain, leaving behind the image of a fierce, courageous Queen of Heroes while her emerald mask flutters to the ground.

As two men and a city watch, the screen switches to an old photograph of Crimson Ivy, whose long, auburn hair flows around pale skin and hazel eyes. She smiles with youthful confidence, her face shining with the promise of a glorious future.  
~*


	19. Chapter 19

Summer arrives coyly, teasing Sternbild with springtime chills and showers, masking the city in silks of faded gray. The trees haven’t yet fully bloomed, their pale green buds tentative and shivering against pearls of frosty dew. Despite forecasts of sunshine and clear skies, the stubborn clouds march over the grand skyscrapers and extensive highways, casting everything in rebellious shadows.

Keith thinks today is beautiful.

Standing in the gray and wet and cold is a man in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Spikey dark locks are swept back, revealing skin glistening from stray drops of rain. The nearly transparent shirt clings to a broad chest, traces the ridges of a muscular abdomen, and dips with the curve of a narrow waist. Black slacks hint at the sleek strength of long, lean legs as they shift with each step. Shoes, polished with dirt and bits of grass, tap against the damp pavement impatiently.

He drapes his thick bomber jacket over the man’s shoulders as they wait.

Eyes flash in his direction, alive with sparks of amber.

“Of all the times for the bus to be late,” Tiger grumbles. “If my car hadn’t broke down last week…”

He tries not to smile, knowing it would only worsen the other man’s mood.

“What the hell is with this weather anyway? Is it really July?” He groans and wraps the jacket tighter around his body just as a stray lock of hair falls over his eyes. He attempts to remove it by puffing air from his lips, but it only makes him look cross-eyed and silly.

Keith has the urge to tuck the strands behind Tiger’s ear. Instead he keeps his hands in his pockets and simply watches as the man struggles and fails to remove the stubborn lock from his face. Eventually, he shrugs on Keith’s jacket to free his arms and wipes the offending piece from his eye, rubbing the spot where it tickled.

“Man, I just want to go home,” Tiger says. He glances at Keith once more. “Are you going to stay over?”

“If you want me to,” he answers.

“Idiot, it’s not whether I want you to or not. It’s whether _you_ want to stay over,” Tiger says. He’s got a gravelly edge to his voice, an indication that he’s moody and short-tempered. “Honestly, sometimes it’s like you just follow me around without thinking.”

“I like being with you,” Keith says.

“Don’t you ever think about going out to meet girls or partying?”

“I’m not really interested in those things, Mr. Wild.”

Tiger stares at him with a skeptical frown.

“I’m almost thirty now,” he says. “I’ve got a kid. Makes sense for me to sit around at home drinking beer and watching television. But you? You’re still young and free.”

“Do you want to go out and meet girls and party?” Keith asks, confused. Was Tiger jealous of his circumstances? Not that Keith had much time outside of his work to do any of those things either.

“Tch, of course not. I’d rather be with my little girl,” Tiger says. He zips up the jacket a little higher, almost to his neck. “She’s a much better conversationalist than any of those women in the bars.”

“Miss Crimson might disagree with you, Mr. Wild,” Keith says.

Tiger rolls his eyes.

“Miss Crimson and her gals are on an entirely different level. I’m talking about the ones who don’t think about anything past their own make-up,” Tiger says. “Crimson’s girls, they’re classy and refined. You can’t touch them unless they touch you first.”

Keith isn’t sure where this conversation is heading. They’ve never talked about women before.

An implication lurks behind his mind and attempts to sneak out of his consciousness when the floodlights of his brain snap open and capture it midway through its escape.

“Are you looking for someone to date, Mr. Wild?” he asks innocently.

Tiger immediately bristles at the question, arms defensively hugging his chest.

“What makes you think that?” he demands.

“You’re talking about girls.”

“I’m talking about how weird it is for you _not_ to be talking about girls. Or being with girls.”

“So you’re not looking for someone to date?”

“Ugh, are you even listening? No! I’d rather be with my family.”

Keith blinks as the implication’s accomplice, inference, attempts to make a getaway of its own. His mind is unusually bright today though and catches that too.

“Do you want me to stop coming over so you can spend more time with your family?” he asks.

Tiger takes a deep breath.

“You’re really pissing me off today,” he says. “First off, if I could spend time with them _I would be doing that right now_. Problem is that they live hours from here and by the time I clock out of work it’s usually past Kaede’s bedtime.”

He manages to follow Tiger’s reasoning and nods.

“Second, I’ve invited you over to my house for months now. Why the hell would I want you to stop coming over suddenly?”

He doesn’t know the answer to that.

“And third, I brought up this entire conversation because I thought maybe you needed someone to remind you there’s more to life than work and alcohol.”

Keith knows that perfectly well but isn’t sure how to articulate his understanding without making a further mess of their conversation.

Before Tiger can continue his rant, the bus arrives with splashes and groans, the glare of its headlights drowning out the darkness. Tiger peels off Keith’s jacket and hands it to him, stepping silently on board with his change.

As soon as they find two empty seats near the back, the sprinkle of rain ceases and the clouds begin to disperse. Sunlight, sleepy and slothful, spreads over the ground and enters through the dirty windows of the bus.

For the majority of the ride, they sit together without talking.

It’s when Keith finally figures out what he wants to say and how to say it that he interrupts the quiet.

“Mr. Wild,” Keith begins.

“Don’t,” Tiger snaps.

Keith’s mouth closes shut as an ache stabs through his throat.

“Calling me Mr. Wild makes you sound like a kid,” Tiger grumbles. “We’re the same. Four years isn’t that much of a difference.”

“What… what would you like me to call you instead?” Keith asks. He’s relieved that his voice comes out steady.

Eyes glinting with amber sparks peer directly into his.

“When I’m not in disguise, call me Kotetsu,” he says. He looks away, frowning. “I’ve been meaning to tell you to stop calling me Mr. Wild for a while now.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Tiger sighs and rubs the side of his cheek.

“It’s not that. It’s that… I’m not a Hero right now. I’m just Kotetsu. You’ve been with me long enough to know him.”

Keith tries out the name, muttering it under his breath.

“It’s nice,” he says. He likes how the first syllable is a sharp expiration, only to be softened into a susurrus by the last two sibilants. He likes how the air whispers lovingly of its paradoxical strength and delicacy when the name escapes from his lips once more. Keith thinks it’s oddly fitting.

Tiger makes a half-exasperated, half-amused sound.

“And you don’t mind if I call you Keith?”

It’s strange how, in an instant, one word can pierce straight through the body and electrify it into breathlessness.

Keith isn’t able to keep his voice steady this time.

“O-of c-course,” he says. He has to look away, has to fight down the urge to blush. The only urge he accepts is the one to smile like a fool. “Please feel free to call me whatever you’d like… Kotetsu.”

Again the air vibrates happily with the sound, bouncing off a clumsy tongue to dance with the molecules of condensation.

Tige — Kotetsu leans against Keith, a damp shoulder bumping against his through cotton and polyester. He’s no longer frowning, finally relaxing from whatever tension that had him wound up earlier. The edges of his dress shirt stick on Keith’s jeans while his shoes squeak against the rubber tiles of the bus floor.

While sunlight warms the sides of their bodies, the center where they touch is hot and damp, shirts unable to dry successfully by the time the bus screeches to their stop. It’s vaguely uncomfortable, but it’s also kind of pleasant, if only because it allows Keith to appreciate how the cool scents of grass and soil contrast and complement the slightly musky odor of body heat. He doesn’t want to get up to leave. He’d rather just stay like this for a little longer.

But Wi — Kotetsu has no such plans. As soon as the doors hiss open, he separates himself from Keith and jumps off his chair, stretching the fabric of his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

“When we get home,” he says. “Let’s just order pizza and watch a mindless action film. Something with lots of explosions.”

Keith nods, not wanting to show his disappointment.

But their plans are short-lived, as their communicators brighten up with urgent flashes.

Behind the tree of the bus stop, Kotetsu takes out the black domino mask hidden inside his pocket and arranges it over determined eyes. All signs of irritation are gone, leaving only a sense of grim duty on Wild Tiger’s face. They don’t have to even look at each other — they start running at the same time, dodging bystanders and obstacles to rush to fit into the skin of their second selves.

Somewhere between Kotetsu’s house and the shopping mall, Keith transforms into Sky High, joining Wild Tiger as they deal with a hostage situation in one of the jewelry stores. Wind bursts from his hands as Tiger vanishes from sight and appears behind the robber not a second later, arm in a chokehold around the criminal’s neck. Sky High picks up the employee in the air and brings her close to his body, shielding her from any potential attacks. The criminal tears off the black ski mask, revealing a young woman with thin lips, bright hazel eyes and an angry, pale face.

“Let me go!” she shouts. “Let me go you stupid, mindless pigs!”

“Calm down,” Wild Tiger says. He frowns and tightens his grip. “There’s no point in struggling. We’ve already got you.”

“You Heroes are fucking traitors to the NEXT cause!” she snarls. “You deserve to rot in this hellhole.”

Neither Wild Tiger nor Sky High are prepared for the woman’s eyes to glow a shade of blue, just as they aren’t prepared for the entire roof of the store to come crashing down that exact moment.  
~*


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original post on Dec. 29 had a missing chapter. It has been added back in its appropriate place (ch. 18).

Muscles scream, hot pressure spreading across palms, spiking down arms, searing into toes. The deafening barrage of plaster and concrete and exploding glass drown out the shrieks of a frightened woman, swallow his voice as he roars, throat raw and tight, as hands release enough wind to prevent the worst of the damage from crushing their bodies.

He manages to create a barrier just before the air picks up the weight of a falling metal beam. Keith’s knees nearly buckle as he attempts to generate a whirlwind strong enough to hold that up too.

His breath comes out in heaving gasps, his heartbeat bursting against his sternum in the furious cadence of tribal drums, going _thumpthumpthumpthump_ as blood pumps into his fingers and fills the vessels of straining legs. His muscles twitch and convulse under sheer stress, burning and adjusting and weakening with every second.

He grounds the heels of his boots against crumbling debris to steady his body, to keep it rigid and strong.

The ceiling trembles as though in an epileptic seizure, raining down more and more plaster until his head and shoulders become so heavy he’s bowing forward, spine stretching as it absorbs the impact of stray materials.

His hands are numb now, and all he can see is the blinding shade of blue expelling before him, seeping into the swirling dark clouds of dust. His wind blades slice through material in black, desperate strokes, cutting down each enormous chunk into smaller pieces before it could land and flatten flesh into pulpy clumps. The barrier of wind groans above his and the woman’s body as he attempts to cut and guard, attack and defend, simultaneously.

The woman clutching the side of his waist disappears, her firm presence vanishing into the smog of debris. His eyes bulge and dart around the screen of his helmet, attempting to catch sight of a body as the monitor automatically shifts perspectives and scans the area. Visibility is low, and on the left corner an alert flashes, indicating the damaged status of two of the four internal cameras. Another alert jumps to the screen, warning him that the protective material of his helmet is stripping away.

He doesn’t have much time.

But he’s trapped.

He can’t move — not when all his focus is on keeping part of the roof still afloat.

He can’t search — not when his vision is failing and his body is at the point of collapsing.

But he can’t let someone die.

He concentrates on the remainder of the roof, assembling the pieces into a whirlwind so that when it falls it only has one place to land.

Everything turns fuzzy and gray, knocking him almost over the edge of consciousness as the roof snaps his bones and slams against sinew and viscera. The flaring agony that wracked his body before now mutates into a monster of screeching nerves and incoherent sensations, overriding rational thought.

His teeth clench, blood dripping from the cracks of a broken helmet.

The shade of blue doesn’t die, doesn’t fade.

It erupts against the rubble, shoves against the plaster and metal until he’s able to lift himself onto his knees. His hands, stretched out in front, they’re trembling with violence, with old fears and new determination.

Twin breezes search the carcass of the building with prying claws, sifting through blocks and hitting walls before snaking underneath powdered plaster, concrete slabs, and bent metal, hoping to hit against the soft, solid presence of flesh.

He has to crawl, one leg awkwardly dragging as the other flexes and pushes against the ground. He ignores the bites from shards of glass that dig into his torn tights and penetrate skin with each limping movement.

His fingers quiver as the breeze continues to search blindly.

The gray is returning, creeping in the corners of his eyes.

He can’t give up.

He seeks for the woman, for the criminal, for

 _For Kotetsu._

He can’t let any of them stay buried, not when the chance for survival shrinks with every critical second.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, almost gone, meaning he can’t scream for help to notify the authorities when they come to assess the damage – but maybe, now that the roof has fully caved, the three of them can hear him, can hear the faint hope released from a quiet breath.

“Can you hear me? Where are you? Please, say something. I-I’m here — here to… rescue…”

His hands turn pale with gray ash, falling lower and lower from the air.

“I-I’m _here_ ,” he repeats. A cough rips the swollen muscles in his throat. “…I’m here to rescue you. Please. S-someone say something.”

The store reverberates with the phantoms of a disintegrating roof, air vibrating with a residue tension, leaving behind only the hollowness of silence to isolate Keith, to fill the deadening atmosphere with the solitary sounds of his harsh breaths and shuffle-scratch of his half-crippled legs.

He continues to search, even as he begins to notice the strength of his breezes diminishing and their length shortening.

With each unsteady step, effusive blue light bleaches the black ash covering the entire surface of the store, transforming it into a fine solemn gray.

Slowly, his legs stop crawling, stop dragging.

He blinks as everything blurs into smudges of charcoal.

His fingertips are no longer trembling.

His hands finally drop down to his sides.

It’s as though the strings of a marionette have been cut. His body slackens, eyes glassy and vacant, and the rest of him joins the ground, the shade of blue dissipating from his form, stealing away the life of its owner as it had stolen so many of its victims in the past.  
~*


	21. Chapter 21

A murky, tangled creature coils from his stomach, wraps around his chest, binds his arms and fingers, and muffles the faint buzzing from above. He can’t move, trapped in the molasses-thick weight of something vague and oppressive. Everything is dark and unformed, melding into infinite shadows, and his thoughts are brief, flickering like the sparks of a dying cigarette lighter.

Sparks.

Sparks of amber against curtains of rainwater.

He breathes, but he can’t feel the air.

Like fireworks, the sparks disappear, leaving only absence. Only want.

His thoughts slip away with the rainwater, spilling indistinctly into a stream, and they travel downwards, downwards to an unreachable place.

It is there he resides, sleeping without eyes and untroubled by reality.  
~*

 

When Keith awakes, a flood of pain greets him, drowns him and leaves him flat against his back; he’s unable to do anything but gasp faintly as his chest seizes from the onslaught.

Talons scrap against raw nerves and pierce muscle-bone-mind, generating a pulsating rhythm that beats irregular and surges with a familiar pressure. Except this time the pressure isn’t expelling outward from his fingertips but building inside him, filling and stretching and seeping into every inch of flesh until his body melts into pure sensation, pure energy.

It blinds him as pain and pressure conjoin, twin beasts eager to cannibalize each other as they consume him simultaneously.

All he can do is let his mind flee back to that place of oblivion, as something metal-cold slaps over his mouth and forces tepid air past his lips, wheezing with every pump. It’s the last thing he notes before he fades.  
~*

 

His eyes are dry and crusty when he opens them. Fluorescent lights blaze from the ceiling, causing the yellow sheets covering his body to shimmer with the color of egg yolks. That’s when he realizes he’s in a hospital bed, head propped against an elevated mattress in a half-sitting position.

As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, other details return as well. His knees feel swollen and heavy like overripe fruit, ready to burst in fresh agony with one wrong movement. His legs are rigid, encased in stiff bandages, and there’s something sticking out of his arm. The calendar near his bedside informs him two full days have already passed.

Someone's knocking on the door.

It opens hesitantly, revealing a familiar, but unexpected, figure.

Kotetsu takes off his hat and places it over his heart.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Shock, followed by an overwhelming sense of relief, keeps Keith frozen in his bed.

”Y-you’re okay,” he says faintly. All he remembers before awaking is the ceiling collapsing, burying everything from sight, while dust settled in the dead silence.

Taking his response as permission to enter, Kotetsu shuts the door behind his back. He has thick, white bandages over his hands, but no other visible injuries. Instead, concern dominates his expression.

”How are you?” he asks.

“I...” Keith starts, but gives a little shake of his head. “Please sit, Mr. — ah, I mean, Kotetsu.”

He watches as Kotetsu slowly walks over and pulls up one of the cushioned chairs. He sits on it backwards, his arms folded over the top of the frame. His hat dangles from his hand.

“It’s boring without you,” Kotetsu says. “None of the Heroes can work right now so there’s nothing to do. Tch, that crazy NEXT really knows how to cause problems.”

Keith hasn’t heard any news about the aftermath of the incident and is desperate for an update. He scoots closer to Kotetsu until he’s almost on the edge of his bed and starts by asking a few innocent questions.

The hat falls onto the ground, fingers loose.

“The criminal got arrested,” Kotetsu mutters tersely. Keith doesn’t quite catch the expression on his face because Kotetsu decides at that moment to get out of his chair and crouch on the ground to pick up his hat. It lands over his bangs, covering his eyes. “Don’t worry about the rest.”

“What about Hero TV? Why can’t you work?”

Kotetsu straightens up and grabs something from his back pocket. It’s a crumpled document with a brief, official statement:

  


  
 _As of now HERO TV is on hiatus. All Heroes are placed on temporary leave until further notice._  


  


“That rogue NEXT did a lot of damage, so folks started questioning whether it was worth it to risk letting any NEXT wander around freely. Us included,” Kotetsu says, an irritated growl creeping into the last of his words. “We Heroes are the ones protecting the city! And they’re calling _us_ dangerous? Have they even paid attention to the show? Tch!”

He glares at television hanging in the corner of the room.

“So that’s why you can’t work?”

Kotetsu snorts.

“No. The reason why the show’s suspended is ‘cause someone found out the crazy NEXT is a relative of one of the Heroes.”

“Oh.”

“Stupid news reporters keep trying to dig up more crap about us.” He finds the television remote on one of the tables and presses a button to turn on the screen. He switches a few channels until he hits the local station. “It’s gotten so bad that no one can properly arrest any criminals.”

On the television, a bold headline appears and reads: _Controversy over Hero TV — Dark Pasts of So Called Heroes_. An icon of Sky High joins the other cast members’ distinctive avatars and flashes on the screen while a group of specialists discuss the latest rumors regarding the correlation between NEXTs and the rise in crime rate in the past five years. Within a few minutes, another caption rolls on the bottom of the screen with the question: _Do NEXTs pose a threat? Genetics research indicates NEXTs predisposed to aggressive behavior, acts of brutality, and more._

The room drops to an unforgivingly frigid temperature. Keith shivers and gulps as a sick feeling coagulates and squeezes his insides.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it? Instead of babbling about crime and violence, they should be letting us work!” Kotetsu furiously scratches the back of his scalp. “Did they forget about Mr. Legend and Crimson Ivy already? The crime rate went _down_ when they were in business. Now they’re bullshitting about NEXTs causing more of it!”

 _Do NEXTs pose a threat? Genetics research indicates NEXTs predisposed to aggressive behavior, acts of brutality, and more._

Keith’s fingers twitch.

His hospital room grows dim as voices from the past emerge from the back of his mind with razor-sharp clarity.

 _“Monster!”_

 _“Did you hear? He put half his class in the hospital with his freak powers.”_

 _“Get away from that creepy guy. He can kill you with one look.”_

His injuries are difficult to ignore, but what's even harder to repress is a sudden, chilling question:

Why couldn’t he have easily saved everyone at the store, when he had the power to kill two men and destroy an entire alleyway?

Is it —

His heart flinches, and he wants to deny the implication, but —

Is it because he’s more powerful when anger and hatred fuel his body?

Is it because he’s naturally better at taking lives than saving them?

“Ugh, this is just making me more depressed.” Kotetsu turns off the television and leans roughly against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t pay attention to it. Ben and everyone else will figure out how to deal with the press.”

“Mr. Wild,” Keith says. It’s not a slip of tongue, but deliberate.

And it works. Kotetsu pauses, frowning. For the first time, he stares directly at Keith.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Keith needs to say this now before the guilt eats away his courage. Before he becomes too ashamed to confess.

“I’m sorry for what happened then. In the store.” His fists clench, knuckles straining as his eyes darken with remorse. “I should have been able to save all of you.”

Kotetsu’s arms unfold and hang at his sides, his white bandages flashing under the bright lights.

“If I could control my powers better, you would’ve had enough time to evacuate the women safely,” Keith goes on. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Shoes click on the tiles of the floor at a steady pace before stopping. Kotetsu adjusts his hat, exposing more of his face. There’s a strange expression masking it, one that Keith can’t identify.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Kotetsu says. Once again, quietly. “I grabbed the woman standing next to you, but didn’t let you know what I was doing. Both of them were evacuated, Keith. The only one who got hurt was you.”

He sighs and sits on the corner of the bed. He plays with the loose end of one of his bandages.

“My Hundred Power ran out as soon as I got out of the building. I tried to get back in, but the entrance was blocked. All I heard was a giant crashing sound and I thought — ”

A piece of bandage tears.

“…it’s my fault. I messed up. You were doing your best, but I panicked and didn’t think. If I had said something, you wouldn’t have been… it’s my fault.”

Keith grabs Kotetsu’s wrist to make him stop fidgeting.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Keith says, voice ringing with staunch conviction. “I should have tried harder.”

The bed squeaks as it shifts. Kotetsu has another strange expression, and it makes him wonder if he’ll ever get a chance to learn the language behind such looks, to decipher them with fluency.

“You nearly got yourself killed, and you’re saying you should have _tried harder_?” Kotetsu shakes his head, chuckling weakly. “Cut yourself some freaking slack.”

“I don’t see how it’s your fault either,” Keith says. “You did what you were supposed to. Civilians’ lives come first.”

Silence gives respite to the conversation, lets things cool so both of them have some space to think.

As the numbers on the clock switch seamlessly, he realizes the bandages on Kotetsu’s hands must be from the attempt to re-enter the collapsed storefront. He pictures Wild Tiger frantically shoving aside rubble and debris to rescue yet another person, glass and broken metal stabbing hands as arms strained with only normal human strength to do something that, for a few precious minutes, had been effortless.

He knows too well what drives such reckless desperation, because he had done the same from the inside. He’s about to tell Kotetsu just as much when the man speaks up.

“I was scared of losing you,” Kotetsu whispers. He rounds his shoulders, his words tense and uneven. “If you were gone like Tomoe…”

Keith’s eyes widen. The look Kotetsu has isn’t so foreign now that he understands. Anxiety. Regret. Fear.

The same emotions gnawing inside him are trapped inside Kotetsu’s tired, stressed body.

He hears the hitch of a breath as he wraps his arms around Kotetsu’s chest. It’s awkward, because Keith has to bend from his hips and his right leg isn’t able to adjust, but he doesn’t care. He holds Kotetsu from behind, hoping the hug can communicate what his words would fail to say.

To his surprise, the man turns around to face him, letting Keith’s arms brush over his white vest. At this distance, the scent of citrus rises from a collar and invites Keith to breathe in a little deeper. As he inhales, he can’t help but savor the warmth and firmness of the embrace. The simple act of holding Kotetsu causes something to finally relax inside him, to assure him that yes, things are okay now, because he can hear the life of a heartbeat underneath clothes, vibrant and enduring.

Their foreheads nearly touch, barely an inch apart. Keith keeps his eyes downcast, afraid of being overwhelmed by the proximity. There’s a modest tension cramped in the gap between their bodies, but it’s not anything he minds too much; he’s used it after months of accidental touches and friendly contact.

But maybe Kotetsu minds, because he sighs, a loud sound, harsh in the silence. He grabs the back of Keith’s head and pulls them close together, so that the distance disappears, erasing the tension with it. His palm slides down the length of Keith’s hair, brushing his nape lightly, before falling onto the thin cover of a canary yellow blanket.

They sit together like this while the clock flashes red, digital numbers.

It makes him think:

He wants to hold Kotetsu like this forever.

He wants to lean into the curve of Kotetsu’s neck to let the scent of citrus mix and absorb into his skin, if only to take a remnant of the man with him as a keepsake.

But he wants a lot of things he knows he will never ask for.

Which is why he swallows hard when arms brush across his and clasp at the small of his back.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Kotetsu murmurs. His thumb caresses a spot on Keith’s spine absent-mindedly. “If you want, you can stay at my place while you recover.”

The offer is too good. Keith can’t allow himself to intrude for so long, can’t allow himself to stumble into the hope of something besides friendship because of Kotetsu’s kindness. He releases his arms from Kotetsu’s waist and the distance appears between them again, this time colder and bittersweet.

“I think I can manage by myself,” he says softly.

“Are you sure?”

An ache returns to his body, sinking into his bones, as he tries to smile.

“I heal quickly so it should be fine. Please don’t worry about me.”

Kotetsu’s arms are still around Keith. They tighten as the man frowns, doubtful eyes narrowing.

“You live in a closet on the twentieth floor,” he says. “It’d be a pain to use crutches at your place.”

Keith averts his gaze and his smile fades, uncertain.

“You should come over. You can even sleep on the bed.”

“I can’t do that!” He pushes away from Kotetsu, just enough for the hands on his back to clench to restrain him. “You’re really too nice, Mr. Wild — ”

The man pulls Keith toward him with a rough yank, their chests bumping.

“I thought we were over the formalities,” he says sharply. Then, he eases off, giving Keith an encouraging smile. “C’mon, stop worrying about stuff like that. You’ve slept over enough times that you’re pretty much a roommate anyway.”

Ears flushing, Keith tries one more time to protest.

“Nope! Looks like I win this round,” Kotetsu says, and his smile transforms into a grin. “You have to be a good boy now and let someone take care of you.”

Keith glances down at the bandages on the man’s fingers.

“Only if you’ll let me cook,” he says, bargaining.

“Oi, are you saying my cooking’s bad?”

“It would be nice to eat more vegetables,” Keith says. A smile of his own forms, this time genuine. “They’re good for you.”

Kotetsu makes a disgusted sound, pouting.

“No broccoli,” he says stubbornly.

“Okay. We can have cauliflower instead.” The good-natured response only causes Kotetsu groan and rest his chin on Keith’s shoulder.

“Health nut,” he mutters.

It seems Kotetsu doesn’t have any plans to let go of Keith, preferring to relax against his chest like a cat intent on napping.

Hopefully, the man doesn’t pick up on his nervousness, the slight anxiety that heats his palms and flutters in his stomach.

“…hey, Keith.”

“Hm?”

“Can I draw on your cast?”  
~*


	22. Chapter 22

Two weeks later, Keith finds Kotetsu sniggering over something during breakfast and spends five confused minutes trying to figure out what’s funny. It’s only when he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from his face that he feels the domino mask over his eyes. For an incomprehensible second, he wonders how that got there, until he catches the mischievous smirk from across the table.

“You look like some kind of thief,” Kotetsu says, amused. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

He adjusts the mask before frowning solemnly. Keeping his gaze level, he slowly raises a hand, his fingers forming a gun, which aims straight at the man’s heart.

“Stop right there!” he orders, deepening his voice to match what he thinks is a villainous tone. It only makes the other man laugh harder. “I mean it! Give me all your money or I’ll… I’ll…”

His brows scrunch up as he tries to come up with a suitably chilling threat.

“Or you’ll what?” Kotetsu asks. He sounds bored, but there’s a twitch to his lips.

“I’ll kidnap you!” Keith decides. Giving himself an encouraging nod, he adds, “You’ll be held for ransom! And then I’ll take your money!”

“Ehh? But what if I don’t have any money?”

He hesitates for a second, tripped up by the question. An idea strikes, and he inserts an evil cackle.

“Mwahaha, then you’ll just have to be my prisoner! How do you like thafhffff!”

Kotetsu shoves a piece of toast into Keith’s mouth, causing crumbs to spray everywhere while his cheeks puff up.

“Don’t quit your day job,” is what he says before picking up the plates to let them soak in the sink. Keith chews quickly and swallows the dry toast, pleased with his improvisation. They play act sometimes, whenever Kotetsu’s feeling restless in the house and TV isn’t entertaining enough. He enjoys these moments, because they’re fun and it takes their minds off the worry about their jobs as Heroes. The city is still in turmoil, and there are talks of having a new producer for the show, so they can’t do much but wait until the show officially cancels or restarts.

His cast thumps on the ground as he walks over with the milk glasses, which causes Kotetsu to grumble about him not using his crutches again.

“I think my leg is almost healed,” Keith says. “It’s good training.”

“You tried _jogging_ on it yesterday, stupid,” Kotetsu says. “I don’t trust your idea of training.”

They wash the dishes together, because Keith likes to have them finished in the morning and Kotetsu’s too stubborn to let him do them by himself. The place is cleaner nowadays, despite having an extra occupant, because when Kotetsu is alone everything piles up or starts growing fuzzy things. Keith remembers the first night back from the hospital, when he was forced to sleep in the master bedroom and wound up coughing from all of the dust. He tried his best to keep it quiet, but eventually the floorboards creaked and the door glinted open, and Kotetsu, sleepy and irritated, told him to shut up and come downstairs so they could both get some rest. He took the futon again, the two of them watching some boring advertisements until the glare of the television melted into darkness behind closed eyelids.

“You’re still wearing it,” Kotetsu says suddenly.

He smiles and rinses the ceramic plate with a daisy print.

A wet finger reaches out and peels the lightning edges before stopping.

“It makes your eyes look really blue. Almost like you’ve activated your powers or something.” Kotetsu squints and leans in to inspect, as though trying to determine if Keith is pulling some kind of trick that allows him to control the length of the aura so that it concentrates solely behind Wild Tiger’s mask.

Keith’s heart beats a little faster at the closeness, and his grip on the plate slips just a bit. He corrects his hold and turns away, forcing Kotetsu’s fingers to withdraw. A puzzled look is aimed at him, but he ignores it, hoping the heat rising from the back of his neck isn’t visible.

“Hey, you’ve been acting weird lately,” Kotetsu says.

A jolt of fear runs down his spine, and he freezes, mind panicking. The scent of a citrusy cologne is strong, filling his senses, and he can hear the faintest pattern of breathing that sends an ache straight from his chest to his fingertips.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head to say nothing’s wrong.

“Wait.” A sharp sound, ringing the way knives do when they scrape against each other. “…I think I get it now. It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

He stares hard at the soapy foam, watching the bubbles pop rapidly and shrink down the drain.

“Do you…”

His heart clenches.

“Do you have a problem with me touching you?”

It’s not the question he expects. He closes his eyes, immensely relieved, and his body relaxes, even as the faintest sliver of disappointment registers in the back of his mind.

“I had the same issue when I was a kid,” Kotetsu continues. “It was really hard, but Tomoe helped me get over it eventually. But if you prefer not being touched, then I guess I should be more considerate. Sorry. It seems kind of obvious now that I think about it.”

Keith doesn’t want the hugs to stop, because they’re one of the surefire ways to improve a bad day or make a good day better. But he’s not confident he can continue to let Kotetsu touch him when he always feels so strange and confused afterwards.

“Hey… seriously, are you all right?”

He hunches his shoulders, his mouth tightening to fight down the quiver. It’s no good; as a teenager he used to deflect questions with cheerful, seemingly carefree smiles, but he finds it hard to do that anymore, at least in front of Kotetsu.

The mask, already mostly peeled, falls from his face and lands softly in the wet sink. As water soaks the corners and folds, darkening the white edges into gray, the black fabric glistening, he thinks there’s not much he can hide when Kotetsu has already seen him in his most desperate hours.

Maybe it’s better to be honest. In the past few weeks, all he’s done is secretly savor Kotetsu’s affection, which leaves him feeling guilty and on edge.

“I… I think I need to tell you something,” Keith says. He turns to face Kotetsu, willing his courage to see him through. A dizziness sweeps over his mind as the cast on his leg suddenly becomes unwieldy and painful.

The sight of warm brown eyes is almost too much, and so he looks down at his bare feet, his voice small and afraid.

“I-I’m… that is I think y-you’re…”

A hat slides over his eyes, blocking his vision.

“You worry too much,” Kotetsu says. “Take it easy. I told you already. I understand. It’ll take time, but I’m sure you’ll find someone you’re comfortable being close with.”

“But — ”

“No buts! You were going to say something about your powers, weren’t you? It’s really not as bad as you’re thinking it is. Hell, you’ve got better control than some of the other Heroes. So stop looking down about it!”

Keith stays quiet, the darkness produced by Kotetsu’s hat providing the cover he needs to hide the burning sting in his eyes.

“I want you to be confident,” Kotetsu continues. “Smile! You have a really nice smile, y’know?”

His heart wrenches in a funny direction, leaving him feeling strangely empty.

The hat pulls away, back to its owner, and he quickly ducks his head, despite knowing it’s a futile effort in damage control.

A surprised grunt reaches Keith’s ears, and then a soft, tiny sigh. Kotetsu’s fingers reach out, almost unconsciously, before halting in midair.

“Guess I need to work on my pep talk skills,” he mutters under his breath. His arm falls away, resting at his side, and he turns to lean his back against the counter of the sink. He stares across the living room, where rumpled blankets overflow from the pale body of a couch, the corners brushing against a neatly folded futon and pillow. The coffee table is carefully organized on one side with miniature wood carved animals, and on the other there’s an opened bottle of beer and a stack of old Monthly Hero magazines.

Keith says, almost too quietly,

“I don’t mind being touched.”

Kotetsu’s gaze shifts up to the ceiling, and a frown appears, contemplative.

“That’s bullshit.”

A coldness runs underneath his skin, icing his blood and lungs until each breath becomes painful and forced.

“I didn’t notice it before… but now it’s impossible not to see it. You act just like I did when I was younger,” Kotetsu says. “I used to hate it when other kids got too close. My family didn’t hug each other much, but there was one time Mom tried to bandage me up after I got in a fight. It was awful. Even if you don’t want to push people away, it’s hard to accept the risk of hurting them, isn’t it?”

There’s a strange tone to Kotetsu’s voice, so gentle yet filled with emotion. He stands, taller and older and wiser than Keith, yet there’s a pain in his expression that allows Keith to see the frightened child underneath, who despite being sheltered by the experiences of adulthood, can’t quite believe in a future where he’s not alone.

“It’s hard,” he repeats. “Even now… with Tomoe gone, sometimes I get scared of holding Kaede. I can control my powers pretty well, but whenever I carry her, I think of how small and fragile she is. It’s different, being a NEXT when everyone around you is normal.”

Kotetsu raises his hands and flexes them, fingers curving toward his wrists. The green bracelet catches a ray of sunlight and nearly blinds Keith, but he doesn’t close his eyes or look away.

“I thought I could be your cool mentor, and pretend I had most things figured out,” Kotetsu confesses. “But the truth is… I just really like being with you. With someone who understands these things.”

A slight laugh.

“When I say you shouldn’t worry… I mean, don’t think about it too much. Because you’ve already got a great start.”

His hands unfold, displaying faint scars running down the palms. It took weeks for the cuts on Kotetsu’s hands to heal, because despite the lack of Hundred Power, he had kept digging through broken glass to reach Keith inside a caved-in building. He always reached out, because he was Wild Tiger, was Kotetsu Kaburagi, a man willing to destroy impossible barriers to rescue those who thought they were alone and abandoned.

And now, he reaches out again by exposing his fears and his doubts, a painful effort to help Keith understand he’s not alone, not abandoned, that his problems are not the impossible barriers he once thought they were.

This time, Keith raises his hand and stretches past the distance that rests between their bodies. He holds Kotetsu’s wrist loosely, giving the man room to easily slip away, and waits.

Surprise widens brown eyes as they gaze down where their hands meet. Then, Kotetsu glances at Keith, giving a questioning look, and after a few seconds, he seems to find his answer, because he steps closer, hesitantly, almost nervously.

Keith brings Kotetsu’s hand close his chest, cradling it, and lets his fingers trace the scars.

“I really like being with you too,” Keith whispers. “I… want us to help each other.”

Because he realizes now that even this being together might be enough. To savor the company of someone who understands, more than anyone else, what it’s like to be in this strange position, as well as to have someone to laugh and drink with, is something he can’t replace, can’t allow to be ruined because of a single, selfish desire.

So he smiles, and that empty space inside him grows smaller, less significant, when Kotetsu smiles back, eyes falling half-lidded, as clouds pass in the windows and cover their bodies in shadows, patterned by the rustling leaves of autumn.  
~*


	23. Chapter 23

In spring, the rain splatters across the pavement with a musical cadence, tinkling on strewn soda cans and the rooftops of warm, quiet storefronts. Keith carries with him a pink frilly umbrella, borrowed from Kotetsu, who upon discovering he had planned to walk to his apartment insisted he use it to avoid catching a cold. The size is a little small, which leads Keith to suspect it’s probably Kaede’s, but he doesn’t mind, considering it does keep him mostly dry.

Now that he’s off crutches, he walks at a steady pace, taking his time, simply enjoying the smell of fresh rain. His legs are sore and strong, thanks to diligent training, but his knees are still a bit weaker than he’d like. Being forced to slow down isn’t a bad thing though, because this way he can window-shop, idly gazing at polished teacups and flashy cameras displayed for the upcoming holidays.

The wind picks up, brushing his collar with icy fingers. Keith can tell from the air alone that there’s a storm coming.

He’s about to quicken his pace when something gold and fluffy catches the edge of his vision.

Pausing, he turns slightly to get a better look.

Dark round eyes meet his, and in an instant, he’s lost, captured by a glowy, tingly sensation that leaves him stunned silent.

His grip on the umbrella loosens, causing it to tilt sideways and spill water down his jacket.

The dog bows his head, resting on forepaws, while a long, shaggy tail wags hopefully from behind.

Without thinking, Keith runs up to the window, touching the glass right above droopy blond ears.

The tail wags harder, and the dog gives a tiny whine, one that sends Keith scrambling inside the store, shoes wet and muddy. He almost forgets to close his umbrella, only to be reminded when the edges catch on the doorframe.

“Ahem. How can I help you?” A grandfatherly shopkeeper stands at the front desk, half-moon spectacles low on the bridge of a thin nose.

For a moment, Keith only has mind for the cute dog, and stares intently at the window.

“Ahah,” says the shopkeeper. “I take it you’re an animal lover?”

A few seconds later, Keith processes the question and belatedly realizes his rudeness. He apologizes, and apologizes again, but the man simply waves away his words.

“He’s just a pup, that one,” the storekeeper says. “Already so big too.”

Nervously, Keith wipes his hands on his jeans before asking, “…may I touch him? I-I mean…”

A firm nod.

“Of course. And you can even buy him from me, if you’d like.” The old man winks. “Hey, pup! C’mere.”

On command, the puppy bolts up and sprints to get to the front desk, barking happily. Keith has to bite his lip to suppress making noises of his own. He crouches on the carpet, only to get a sloppy lick on his cheek and a wet nose brushing against his knee. As he strokes the dog’s back, he’s amazed by how soft and thick the fur is. The little creature vibrates happily under his touch and sniffs at his jeans with eager curiosity.

“Looks like he’s already taken a liking to you,” the shopkeeper says. “Wants to follow you home, I bet.”

The happiness that comes from hearing those words is fleeting, because as soon as Keith contemplates purchasing the dog, an unpleasant reality crashes his dreams with the ferocity of a thunderstorm.

Home.

He gazes longingly at the puppy, whose eyes seem to sparkle with anticipation.

His apartment doesn’t allow pets.

His petting slows until his hand is simply resting on the puppy’s head.

“Um… if you don’t mind, sir,” he says meekly. “Could I visit here instead? I can’t take him with me.”

It hurts to say that, but he has to follow the rules like a good tenant.

The shopkeeper seems surprised, but agrees with a good-natured smile.  
~*

 

After finishing a set of curls-ups, Keith sighs.

“Hey,” Kotetsu says. He sits on one of the gym benches, taking a break from his own workout. “That’s the gazillionth time you’ve sighed today. What’s up?”

Keith stares out at the distance, still in a daze.

“Helloooo?”

A hand waves in front of his face.

“Anyone in there?”

He blinks and shakes his head to clear daydreams of frolicking puppies and soft, fluffy fur.

“Sorry,” he says. “Were you saying something?”

Kotetsu frowns, his bottom lip forming a pout.

“You’re distracted,” he says. “I thought you’d be all gung-ho about working, now that Hero TV is back in business. Did something come up?”

Keith sighs again much to Kotetsu’s annoyance.

“What, you can’t tell your friend about it?” he grumbles.

“No no, nothing like that,” Keith answers vaguely. “I just… came across a rather sweet individual the other day. Very warm and friendly.”

A fond, embarrassed smile grows on his lips.

Kotetsu makes a choking noise, followed by a series of coughs.

“W-wait, really? You found someone?” He slides off the bench and joins Keith on the mattress-covered floor, his mouth open in shock. “Uh… w-when did this… I mean, how did you meet her?”

A memory of the puppy happily circling his leg before snuggling beside his sneaker distracts him from answering right away.

“…him, actually,” Keith says. “I met him at a window in a store. As soon as I saw him, I knew.”

The conversation stalls briefly as he heaves a wistful sigh once more.

“Oh. I see,” Kotetsu says eventually. He clears his throat. “That’s good to hear.”

He shoots Keith a funny expression, one that looks as though he wants to smile and frown at the same time.

“Um… uh… so… you knew what exactly?”

“That he’d be perfect,” he replies dreamily. He turns to Kotetsu, delighted to have someone to chat with about his new friend.

“Have I met him?” Kotetsu asks sharply.

Keith shakes his head, reminded of the fact that the puppy is still without a home and his home is still without a puppy.

“Maybe you should, uh, introduce us,” Kotetsu says. “I mean, being your friend and all, it’s good to get to know him, right?”

Keith thinks this is a marvelous idea and agrees with enthusiasm. Kotetsu responds by scratching his cheek with a bemused raise of his eyebrow.  
~*

 

“Oh,” Kotetsu says. Under his breath, he mutters, “So you meant a dog.”

“This is John,” Keith says. He decided on the name yesterday, when he sat in bed unable to fall asleep from the excitement. “John, meet Kotetsu.”

The puppy barks and tries to crawl up Kotetsu’s leg.

“H-hey, stop that!” A hand grabs John with a firm but gentle hold, placing him back on the plush carpet.

“I visit him every day,” Keith explains. “The store manager said he waits for me all morning.”

John rubs his face against Keith’s hand, eager for a petting session.

“Hmm, is he the manager’s or something?” Kotetsu takes a few steps back and brushes off the stray hairs gathered on his clothes.

“No, but I can’t take him home with me either,” Keith says. He’s still adjusting to this fact. “My apartment has a strict no-pets policy.”

“Ah.”

For a few minutes Keith plays with the puppy, laughing when John tickles his fingers and paws at his arms. Kotetsu doesn’t join in, preferring to silently observe.

“…hey.”

He glances up, inquisitive.

“Y’know, I’ve told you for months what a crappy place your apartment is, right?”

Kotetsu has his hands in his pockets, his gaze directed at the books displayed at the windows.

“…and you know my place is a lot bigger,” Kotetsu says. “No stupid rules like forbidding pets and stuff.”

Keith’s hands go still, fingers buried in golden fur.

“And you’re a good roomie. Hell, I think my place was cleaner when you stayed after you got crutches,” Kotetsu adds.

Silence descends inside the store, one that stretches into awkwardness as the seconds add up. Keith’s stomach is in knots, all caught up in a confused mess of hope and hesitation. He doesn’t know what to say. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, he counts the zigzag patterns and waits.

Exactly fifteen seconds later, a frustrated growl explodes from Kotetsu’s mouth, one that startles Keith with its intensity. Kotetsu pivots on his heels and reaches over, plucking the puppy from Keith’s grasp, raising him high in the air with a scrutinizing frown.

“Hey, mister,” Kotetsu says, all business-like. “You’re coming with us. No excuses.”

He turns to Keith and points the dog in his direction.

“You can raise him at my house and stop paying for that ridiculous apartment. Problem solved,” he says.

“But — ” Keith begins, only to be greeted with an exasperated scowl.

“No buts! This works out perfectly. And it’s _my_ idea so of course it’s awesome,” Kotetsu says. The puppy squirms in his grasp and gives a cheerful bark. “See? The dog agrees with me.”

Keith almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. Is this a dream? Another elaborate fantasy crafted by his imagination?

The stubborn fire in Kotetsu’s eyes convinces him, no, this _is_ real.

He should be worrying that this is a hasty decision, one that can lead to regrets or problems in the future if things don’t work out. Or at the very least, he should be worrying about the logistics of officially moving out of his apartment. But all of that is overwhelmed by the image of Kotetsu and a puppy, _together_ , which causes his heart flutter in strange ways and makes him want to do things like tackle them both in a giant hug.

Instead, he rubs the back of John’s ears and gives Kotetsu a brilliant smile. In return, he receives a slow, satisfied grin and an armful of an excitable puppy.

While they huddle together in the store to discuss plans, the rain begins to pour in icy torrents outside, sparkling over the streets and buildings as a playful wind teases the frosted windows.  
~*


	24. Chapter 24

There had been a call.

Keith huddles on the steps of the dark finance building, his gauntlets scratched and cracking along what had once been an impeccably smooth surface. His company’s brand is unreadable, the paint seared off by the heat. And scattered across his uniform, spilling onto the concrete, are hundreds of tiny, metallic fragments. They glimmer faintly when the flood of helicopter lights passes over them.

His jetpack, the skeleton of it warped and mostly disintegrated, rests in his hands.

He doesn’t notice the cold until a blanket falls over his shoulders.

“Hey.”

A warm presence. The familiar nudge of a shoulder.

He steals a glance just as Kotetsu collapses against him, leaning so hard that Keith feels himself slipping slightly off the edge of the step.

“…sorry,” Kotetsu mumbles. His chin digs into Keith’s clavicle, sharp and painful. “Too tired…”

Slowly, he places the jetpack on the ground and takes the blanket, opening it to cover Kotetsu. Blue uniform, already too thin and easily damaged, is shredded across the left shoulder and back, revealing green-purple welts. He hides the injuries and shares what little comfort there is in a single, rough cotton cloth. 

It seems to help, because Kotetsu’s breath slows down.

Keith watches as white puffs escape from their lips, dissipating as they curl toward the night sky. He doesn’t need to see to know how the air moves, its steady, frigid path westward directing the ashes on the street toward the coast.

Ashes. It’s strange to think that’s all that’s left now.

His fingers rub together, feeling the grit on the pads. There’s more on his face, on his clothes, and his hair as well. It’ll take a while to wash it out.

Cleaning is the last thing he cares about though. 

“Are you okay?” He asks the question in a whisper, not because he’s afraid, but because he can’t muster the energy to speak any louder.

Kotetsu gives a grunt and shifts so that his chin isn’t poking Keith anymore. 

“I’ll be okay,” he says. “Just need to eat. And sleep.”

It wasn’t a lie. But Keith knows, based on how Kotetsu doesn’t move away, doesn’t complain like usual, that he needs something else too.

He grips the blanket tighter as the wind picks up, its sudden strength throwing ashes and ruined metal across a closed-off road.  
~*

 

That night, Kotetsu seeks company. Even though they have separate beds in separate rooms, he takes the futons out of the closet and unrolls them on the living room floor. Puts on a video of an old movie. There are bottles of water and a few snacks on the coffee table, leftover from their last grocery trip.

John joins them, taking up a spot on the couch, paws over his nose. Keith pets him absentmindedly as Kotetsu fiddles with the remote, turning up the volume so it’s loud, but not too loud.

“How’s your injuries?” 

Keith flexes his bandaged fingers, offering a tiny, not quite smile.

“Not as bad as it looks,” he says. “What about you?”

Once everything’s in place, Kotetsu crawls into his blankets. He winces when he tries turning on his back.

“Could be better.”

For a moment, Keith pauses, debating whether or not to go through with his idea. But listening to another hiss of pain makes the decision easy.

“Try lying on your side,” he says. 

“Doesn’t help much,” Kotetsu admits wryly. 

That’s when a sudden flare of warmth runs up Kotetsu’s spine, startling him.

“Gah! W-what was that?” He cranes his neck toward Keith only to have a blue glow wash over his skin. 

A smile answers.

“Helping you sleep,” he says simply. 

For one wide-eyed second, Kotetsu stares. Then, as the warm air continues to massage his muscles, he relaxes, letting his body go completely slack. Pretty soon, his eyes close, and a little content sigh releases from his mouth. Keith’s fingers move just above Kotetsu’s skin, barely a feather’s tip away from actual touch.

Using his powers this way requires fine control and concentration. Despite his exhaustion, he persists, wanting to provide enough relief for Kotetsu to be able to sleep soundly. 

“That feels really nice…” His voice is muffled by the pillow, already at that soft, raspy stage. 

As though caressing folds of silk, the heat digs just a bit deeper.

A satisfied grunt.

“D’you think you could do this every night? Feels amazin’…” 

He continues massaging, making small circles with one hand while the other maintains an invisible heat compress over the skin to wash away the aches. He works until he can barely keep his own eyes open.

After ten minutes pass and Keith’s hands begin to slow, Kotetsu rolls over so that they’re facing each other. The blue light shivers over fingertips, dimming just a fraction from surprise.

“C’mere.”

Arms outstretched with an invitation.

He blinks. Perhaps the exhaustion has riddled his brain, because he can’t quite react.

But Kotetsu won’t let him get away that easily. Quickly, arms wrap around him, tight and secure so that when Kotetsu pulls him to the ground, neither of them get hurt. Instead, Keith lands somewhere between their pillows and the bunched up blankets.

“Um… what…” It’s his turn to not find the right words.

Kotetsu continues to hug him, almost stubbornly.

“Helping you sleep,” he answers, the edge of his words teasing. 

They lie together like this, noses barely a few centimeters apart. For seconds, minutes, he’s not sure. Keith doesn’t remember when he falls asleep exactly, because it feels so seamless, from this moment to the time when his eyes flutter open from the creeping sunlight. The last he recalls is the strength of Kotetsu’s arms and the rhythm of his chest, rising in an enchanting lullaby. 

What a sweet, dream-like memory.

He collects it into a secret, cherished box with all the other moments. Keeps it locked, an invisible key swallowed by the absence of confession.

What he doesn’t realize, at least not until later, is a small detail.

That is, for the entire night, Kotetsu hadn’t let him go.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay. TT_TT This chapter was revised many times and is much longer than originally planned.

The ice slices in sharp, vibrant strokes as children laugh and stumble their way around the rink, their quick-moving skates dyed green and red from the glow of Christmas lights hanging above them. Keith pauses to watch the children play, his grip on John’s leash slackening. It’s been a busy month, and he hasn’t had a day off in three weeks, despite the holidays nearing. Still, today he did well, scoring a personal best on Hero TV, so he supposes it can’t hurt to take his time walking John for one evening.

With the flick of a wrist, he guides John into the town square. Despite his nightly patrols through the city, he hasn’t had much opportunity to really _look_ at Sternbild, to appreciate its ever constant state of change. Right there, near the large-chain cosmetics store, is usually an empty lot, with stone seats and a strange trapezoidal statue standing in the middle. Covering the lot today are flashy booths, their festive curtains inviting customers to browse trinkets and purchase warm cider. Couples and families gather near the seats, sharing snacks that steam against their gloves and flushed faces. Delight is palpable all around, from the way kids grin with toothless mouths and parents embrace each other tightly.

For a brief moment, he can’t deny the acute emptiness that resides beneath his ribs as he thinks of Kotetsu, who he wishes could be here with him to share this quiet, happy moment.

A friendly nudge from John’s nose reminds Keith he isn’t alone, and that he’s no longer the same young boy who hid away indoors on Christmases. Grateful for John’s keen sense of mood, Keith scratches the back of his ears, whispering a promise for a special treat when they get home.

They stay a little longer in town square, because while Keith may have never gone ice-skating or shared spiced pumpkin bread with his mother, he’s glad there are still children who can.

A gentle breeze sweeps the snow-covered rooftops, causing the sky to glitter brilliantly as children stop in their tracks and stretch out their hands, awed by the sudden shower of magic dust.

~*

 

Keith arrives home late, but the lights are on in the living room. Puzzled, he wonders if Kotetsu fell asleep in front of the TV after eating again.

But John knows something different is going on, because he begins panting and pawing at the front door excitedly. As Keith enters, he realizes why.

“Hey, you’re finally back!” Kotetsu sits on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge. Beside him is a young girl who wears ribbons in her hair and yellow-pink stockings, her dark wide eyes downcast. She looks familiar, even though Keith has never seen her before.

“This is Kaede. My daughter,” Kotetsu says. His lips twitch at the edges, like he’s trying his best to restrain a smile that’s ready to burst. “She’s visiting me for a few days.”

Kaede glances at him, her thin shoulders hunched. Perhaps she isn’t happy to see a strange man in her father’s home.

“Hello,” Keith says, keeping his voice from his usual vigorous tone. He remembers Kotetsu telling him it can sound kind of scary to people who aren’t used to it. “I’m Keith. Your father’s friend. And, um, this is…”

John barks and wags his tail so fast it slaps against Keith’s thigh.

“My dog John. He’s very friendly, if you’d like to pet him.”

Already, John’s making moves to approach Kaede, sniffing curiously. She stares down at the bundle of golden fur brushing against her stockings, her hands resting uncertain in her lap.

“Don’t be shy!” Kotetsu says, grinning. “He’s super soft because Keith makes him take a bath every month. Go on, touch him!”

Kaede’s shoulders seem to tense even more for a second, before forcibly lowering. She takes one hand, carefully placing it on top of John’s head.

“…he is really soft,” she murmurs.

Kotetsu’s face simply _glows_ with affection at Kaede’s words. Keith, having listened to enough conversations about “daddy’s little girl”, knows Kotetsu treasures even the smallest moments of fatherhood. It fills him with something indescribable to think this man, who has a heart big enough for a city of millions, can give it all to his daughter in one flawless motion. Sure enough, the sheer power of Kotetsu’s enthusiasm does its work as Kaede slowly begins to smile herself, unable to keep up her defenses when Kotetsu makes silly noises and ruffles John’s fur into absurd shapes.

“Dad, he looks like a rooster,” Kaede says, giggling.

“That’s his ‘I-just-got-shampooed’ look,” Kotetsu replies. Eager to keep entertaining, he adds with a teasing raise of his brow, “Hey, wanna see him look like a lion?”

Kaede giggles even harder.

“How are you going to do _that_?” she asks.

Kotetsu gives Keith a wink, his cue to step into the act.

“That’s a secret,” he says. “First, you need to close your eyes for three seconds.”

Skepticism sinks in.

“What are you planning?” she asks suspiciously.

“Just do it! Three seconds,” he insists.

She shuts her eyes, just long enough for Keith to send a blast of hot air at John, who gives a happy, satisfied bark at the sudden warmth.

“Okay, now open them!”

She blinks once, twice, before her cheeks puff up, her fist pressing against her mouth to stifle a peal of hysterical laughter. John’s “lion mane” reaches out five inches from his face, its fluffy texture so thick that it even obscures his eyes and part of his nose.

“W-wha… how did you… _Dad!”_ she gasps, her face turning bright pink. Kotetsu is too busy laughing with her to answer.

John calmly shakes his head and scratches his cheek, causing his black nose to disappear entirely into the furry jungle, while father and daughter struggle to breathe. It takes minutes before either of them can manage to make anything close to a straight face. Keith takes advantage of this time to sneak Kotetsu’s present underneath their modest, sparsely decorated Christmas tree. He makes a note to go shopping tomorrow to buy a gift for Kaede too.

“Wait, you didn’t answer my question!”

Kotetsu rubs his jaw, his belly still rumbling from the last bits of laughter.

“Daaaad,” Kaede says. “How did you do that to John?”

“Wasn’t me,” Kotetsu says, raising his hands up. He tosses the responsibility of providing an explanation to Keith. “That guy! That guy has all sorts of magic tricks. You should ask him.”

Kaede turns to Keith, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

“How did you do it?” she asks. “It felt like this big warm gust — ” she demonstrates with her hands by flailing widely “— and then… _poof!_ ”

“That’s a secret,” Keith says, repeating Kotetsu’s words. He doesn’t want to accidentally let Kaede know about his NEXT powers, not when her father is so determined to hide his. “But I can show you some other tricks if you’d like.”

But Kaede is stubbornly persistent, much like her father in a lot of ways.

“I’ll figure it out!” she declares. “Even if neither of you tell me!”

They exchange amused looks, but agree to accept her challenge.

“But first, show me those tricks,” she says, leaning forward. All traces of shyness are gone now, replaced by an anticipatory gleam.

“Please,” Kotetsu adds.

“ _Please_ show me those tricks, Keith,” she says.

Keith improvises by grabbing a deck of cards from the table and slipping it neatly over his palm.

“Of course, my fair lady,” he says, bowing deeply.

~*

 

Keith is the first to wake up in the morning. Surprisingly, there hasn’t been a call for the Heroes to assemble yet.

Quickly, he makes blueberry waffles and scrambled eggs with chives for breakfast. He has three plates out when Kaede peeks into the kitchen. Her yellow pajamas brush the floor and cover her hands, making her look tinier than before.

“Good morning!” he says brightly. Kaede tugs at the end of her sleeve, seeming unsure what to do.

“Good morning…” she replies softly. “Do you need any help?”

Keith shakes his head. He’s already poured three icy glasses of milk and brought out the cutlery. He can feel her gaze on him, quiet and inquisitive, as he moves around the kitchen with familiar ease.

“I always cook breakfast with Grandma,” she says, lingering at the doorway. “Does… Dad cook with you too?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “It depends on our schedules.”

He pulls out a chair for Kaede, inviting her to sit. She examines her plate, which Keith took extra care in arranging nicely. He would’ve added a smiley face on top, but he doesn’t know if Kaede likes ketchup with her eggs or not.

“Do you always eat with Dad?” she asks. Her fork and knife cut into the waffle, breaking the golden-brown crust.

“Not always,” he says. “Our jobs can make us very busy, so sometimes we eat alone.”

She spreads the syrup over her waffles using the flat side of her butter knife.

“Do you…”

But her question is lost, because Kotetsu comes stomping down the stairs, yawning wide enough for his jaw to crack.

“Hey, startin’ without me?” he pouts.

“Dad, you could at least shower first,” Kaede says, wrinkling her nose.

His hand freezes in mid-air, about to scratch his scalp.

“Uh… oh yeah,” he says, as though the idea had just occurred to him. “Well, maybe after I finish Keith’s delicious waffles.”

She eats neatly, remaining quiet for the rest of the meal. Kotetsu makes up for the gap by being chattier than he’s been in weeks, considering back-to-back shifts had reduced his conversation to grunts and one-word replies a week prior.

“So Kaede, what do you want to do in Sternbild? Is there anything you want to see? A movie? Shopping?”

Her eyes meet Keith’s.

“What do you like to do?” she asks.

Caught by surprise, he ends up saying the first thing that comes to mind:

“I like going to town square,” he says. “There’s an ice rink, some shopping malls, and lots of food there.”

She twirls her fork again.

“You like to ice-skate?” she asks, sounding surprised.

A faint heat rises on his cheeks as he tries to explain.

“Ah, no, I just like to watch people skating there…”

Kotetsu, annoyed that he’s not part of the conversation, jumps in immediately.

“Kaede! Do you want to try ice-skating? We could sign you up for lessons.”

Her fork stops moving, its teeth glinting in the winter sun.

“Will you have time?” she asks.

That throws Kotetsu for a loop, and leaves him silent one second too long.

“…you won’t, will you? If I started ice-skating, you wouldn’t be able to come to my practices.” She says it like it’s a truth, one that won’t be altered by wishful thinking or a hundred promises.

It must sting to hear that, and when Keith glances at Kotetsu, he can tell there’s a pain hiding there beneath his optimistic smile.

“Maybe Papa can’t come to _all_ the practices, but I’d come to most of them!” Kotetsu says. “And I’d cheer extra hard to make up for any I missed.”

“No, it’s okay,” Kaede says, shrugging. “Ice-skating takes up too much time. I’d rather help Grandma around the house.”

She clears her plates, stacking them with practiced ease.

“Thank you for the meal,” she says to Keith. After tidying her spot, she disappears upstairs into her makeshift room, which she shares with her father.

Her absence creates an uncomfortable silence, one that ends in Kotetsu sighing deeply.

“That kid…” he murmurs. Wrinkles form in the corners of his eyes, the guilt hovering silently between him and the empty chair. “How did she grow up so fast?”

Keith’s heart twists in sympathy, wondering what it must be like for Kaede to have lost her mother only five years ago.

Kotetsu sighs again and pushes his plate away. All the energy he had this morning seems to have drained away, leaving him pale and exhausted.

This pain isn’t one Keith knows, but seeing Kotetsu endure it makes him hurt too. He wants to hold Kotetsu’s hand, tell him he isn’t a bad father, that he shouldn’t lose hope connecting with Kaede.

He knows just words won’t do though, and decides a different tactic.

~*

 

Kaede clutches her scarf as the wind picks up its frigid pace. Her eyes wander everywhere, soaking in the sights of a gilded city. Towers stretch across the horizon, their silhouettes cutting grand shapes across a gray overcast day. Closer to the ground, the streets splash with the color of advertisements and cars, which stand in contrast to the masses of individuals bundled in dark coats. To make sure she doesn’t get lost, Kotetsu tries to hold her hand, but she refuses, insisting she’ll stay near John.

“It’s embarrassing, Dad,” she mutters. “I’m _eight_ now.”

He chuckles sheepishly, letting the matter go.

“Well, looks like we only have two more blocks!” Kotetsu says. He squints at the street sign ahead. “You’ve been here before, right, Keith?”

They manage to find the shopping mall that hosts an indoor ice-skating rink with beginner’s classes and equipment. No classes are held today, but the cashier explains there is an open rink for anyone to try skating. Keith figures he can watch from the bleachers, cheer on Kaede as she makes her first steps on the ice.

“Three pairs of skates, please,” Kotetsu orders at the front desk.

“Um, wait, I wasn’t planning on — ”

“Three pairs.” Kotetsu slides his credit card to the register. There isn’t any room for argument, not when the receipt paper is freshly printed and snug in Kotetsu’s pocket faster than Keith can stammer out a protest.

After a few questions from the lady at the rental desk, they all end up getting fitted for skates. Keith has to take a moment to figure out how to tie the laces, but manages a good, firm knot. Kaede and Kotetsu aren’t having the same luck, especially with Kotetsu somehow getting the laces knotted up with the wrong shoes. Keith helps Kaede out first, being careful not to tighten her skates too tightly or too loosely. When she’s ready, she stands up, her fingers clutching the edge of the gate as her legs wobble like a newborn deer.

“I… I don’t know about this,” she says nervously.

“It’s okay, Kaede~ Papa will be right behind you,” Kotetsu assures. “Look, if we just mimic those girls over there — ” he points to two teenagers who glide gracefully around the rink “— we’ll be fine!”

Keith notes their movements and agrees with Kotetsu that it surely can’t be too hard.

“Let’s try it out,” he says. He attempts to enter the rink, the blades of his skates digging into the ice with his first step. He gives an encouraging smile to Kaede to show there’s nothing to be scared of.

It seems to work. She takes one hand and reaches out to Keith’s outstretched one. Together, they ease her onto the rink so that she can balance on her skates. Once she’s standing on her own, Keith experiments with his skates by slowly by pushing his feet outwards, alternating with an even pace. Somehow, he manages to find his stride and learns quickly that he can control his movements better by leaning on the blades of his feet.

Kaede, who struggles behind him, has her head down, focused on watching Keith’s feet adjust to the ice.

“Is this your first time skating?” she asks.

“Yup!” he says. He tries to make a curved turn much to his success. “It’s like your dad said… not too bad, right?”

She regards him with a curious look.

“You’re really good at it,” she says. “It looks like you’re flying.”

Behind them, they hear the sound of scuffling and scraping, followed by unhappy grunts. Keith turns to see deep gashes forming on the ice layer as Kotetsu attempts to right himself up. Both hands cling to the wooden barrier, knees buckled as the skates underneath conduct a wild dance and stamp in an effort to keep the man from falling.

Kaede takes one look at Kotetsu’s pretzel-shaped form and grabs Keith’s hand.

“I think he needs our help,” she says, shaking her head. “Dad! We’re coming.”

“I-it’s okay,” Kotetsu calls out. “I think I’ve — oof — got things taken — _UWAH!_ ”

His left foot moves too far forward and launches him backwards, his head aimed to smash against the cold ground.

“Dad!”

Keith uses instinct to stop his skates just as he catches Kotetsu from falling. His hands press against Kotetsu’s shoulder blades, his knees bending, as he tries to push him into an upright position.

Kaede skates over and stops on her skates slowly, one arm grabbing the barrier and the other helping Keith by pulling on Kotetsu’s tie to yank him forward. Together they manage to get Kotetsu sitting on the ice rather than knocked out.

“You have to be careful!” Kaede says, sounding worried and irritated at the same time.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his ear in embarrassment. “Must be these stupid skates. They don’t work for me at all.”

Kaede lifts one of her skates an inch from the ice.

“Well, mine are okay,” she says. “Maybe Keith can teach you. He’s really good.”

Kotetsu blinks and tilts his head up. His nose tickles Keith’s chin.

“I thought this was your first time skating?”

“Yes.”

“…great.” Kotetsu rolls his eyes. “Figures. You’re a natural at this kinda stuff, aren’t you?”

~*

 

They leave the ice rink with Kaede talking excitedly about the new moves she’s tried, the ones she saw Keith doing (although he doesn’t remember doing them on purpose), and the cute skating dresses worn by some of the girls around her.

“Think you want to do lessons?” Kotetsu has his hands in his pockets, which are frozen pink from all the times his palms have smacked the ice to break his falls.

“Will Grandma let me?” she asks, hope ringing with every word.

“Of course! She can’t say no to her adorable granddaughter, can she?”

Kaede beams.

“Then, can me and Keith go ice skating together?” She points at the billboard they pass, which has a male skater single-handedly lifting a woman in the air, her arms curved in an elegant, ballet pose. “I want to try that!”

Kotetsu’s bottom lip juts out just barely, not enough to make it a full on pout, but enough to show he isn’t completely approving of the idea.

“It looks dangerous,” he says.

“No, it’s not! Besides, Keith and I are _naturals_ ,” she says, sniffing.

“Okay, sweetie,” Kotetsu says. He switches topics. “So where d’you want to eat lunch?”

But before he can get any further, their wrist bands beep urgently, indicating a call.

Keith excuses himself, disappearing around the street corner to answer. He hopes Kotetsu can stay with Kaede and get her to safety. He has a bad feeling about this. Three weeks of non-stop calls, which include two public suicides, five cases of arson, a bomb threat, and multiple hit-and-runs, all come together to a pattern of increasing violence. He doesn’t want to see another cadaver, or witness another civilian in the crossfire.

“Bonjour, Heroes.” Ms. Agnes appears on the screen, her phone held with her shoulder as she types furiously. “There’s a pair of armed robbers heading toward Central District. I want at least four Heroes down there for a good show.”

Keith immediately volunteers. He knows the other Heroes are exhausted and not likely to arrive in Central District for another twenty minutes. And of course, there’s Kotetsu, who has his daughter to worry about…

He pokes his head out from behind the wall to give Kotetsu a signal, a kind of half-wave, half-salute that lets him know the plan.

_Stay here with Kaede. I’ll take care of this._

Kotetsu glares, mouthing a reply:

_I’m a Hero too! You need me, don’t you?_

Keith offers an apologetic smile and vanishes before Kotetsu can do anything reckless like try to join him.

Luckily, his company’s van is quick to get on the scene. He bolts inside to find his uniform hanging on the wall and his helmet at the table, polished and ready.

In two minutes, he’s out, disguised and rocketing into the atmosphere with his body blazing blue underneath a fluttering tunic.

~*

 

Like ice-skating, flying requires quick adaptation and quicker reflexes to allow his body to move naturally with the flow of his surroundings. He traps the armed robbers by pushing them toward a dead-end, his form weaving in and out to dodge the bullets aimed at the sky. They don’t seem to realize where they’re heading, nor they do they understand Sky High’s tactical advantage being at bird’s eye view. His screen zooms into a close-up of their bodies and pinpoints their guns.

He straightens his arms, prepared to deliver a decisive strike, when a shadow stumbles into his vision to stand in front of the armed robbers. A boy, no older than fifteen, has his hands behind his head.

“Hey, Sky High!” A robber croons, waving his gun near the boy. “I heard you don’t like murderin’ kids… well, if you try and do anything with us, we’ll blow this one’s brains out!”

The boy looks blank-faced on camera, his entire body bathed in blue.

Keith’s heart jolts and slams against his throat, leaving him sick and breathless.

“Yeah, that’s right! You probably figured it out by now… My brother here is a NEXT! He can control people’s bodies once he touches ‘em.”

Their fingers twitch over their triggers.

“Give us what we want,” the NEXT demands. “Unless you want to see another kid’s brains all over the street.”

He kicks a pile of snow, spraying it across the boy’s face. His victim doesn’t flinch, his eyes clouded and unstaring.

The sight of snow melting on a hot gun warps Keith’s senses, thrusting him back to that place, to the smell of crumbled brick walls and sunken bodies on that one fateful day in November. The memory of a gunshot, clapping like thunder, piercing an innocent girl’s skull, is one he’ll never forget.

Power surges through his veins as the old fury returns, poisoning his blood.

_No._

He fights against the rage, restraining it with the clarity of his mind.

_No no._

He can’t do this like he did last time. He can’t lose control. Not when he’s worked so hard for it. No, what he has to do is

Adapt.

He raises his hands in surrender, his jetpack adjusting to lower him to the ground. They watch for the slightest twitch, their guns steady on the young boy’s frame.

“If I let you go, promise me you won’t hurt him,” Sky High says. He bows his head to make it a request, a plea for mercy.

“Heh! Like we’d listen to the likes of you circus freaks.” The non-NEXT robber strokes his finger on the trigger, contemplating. “Let us go, and wire us five million Stern dollars. Otherwise, we’ll mail this guy’s head right to your office.”

His boots press against the snow, which compacts into a layer of ice. Keith’s heart is pounding so loud that he can barely hear himself think.

He has to trust his powers.

“When do I have to send the money?” he asks.

“You have a week. Even a minute later and _BAM!_ Dead kid. Don’t want _that_ resting on your conscience, hmm?”

Rather than forcibly remove the guns from their hands — which can cause one of them to fire the gun the instant before the wind slaps it away — he decides to use the air differently.

He takes the moisture from their excited, open-mouthed breaths, and manipulates the invisible droplets over the cracks of the gun, letting them freeze over with the smallest of his icy wind. He lets the gun freeze from the inside out, feeling the pressure with his fingers. All the while, he lets them talk until he’s confident the guns are disabled and he can rescue the kid.

“Sure would make a great Christmas present though, having some brat’s head on a platter,” the NEXT robber jokes.

Keith, having heard enough, sends a blast of current against the robbers, hard enough for them to slam against the brick wall. At the same time, he redirects a different current to bring the boy closer to his side.

“ _YOU BASTARD,”_ the criminal snarls. He aims his gun at Sky High’s chest, but his finger is unable to squeeze the trigger. “What the… fuck. Fuck! Ryan, this thing is fucking _frozen_.”

They realize now they’re in no position to bargain.

Sky High raises his arms, ready to restrain them by lifting them in the air if necessary.

The other Heroes show up on the rooftops just as he captures them by the scruff of their necks, too late to earn any points, but always welcome to help. He doesn’t see Wild Tiger among them, a fact that makes him grateful. He hopes Kotetsu and Kaede have escaped to a safer area, somewhere far from bullets and crazed criminals.

~*

 

Keith prepares to change out of his Sky High uniform, ready to go back home and sleep. But the dramatic encounter with the robbers, along with his unusual method of attack, has been televised by Ms. Agnes’ opportunistic agents, causing news reporters to camp outside of Poseidon Line’s building, eager to spring up and demand a sound byte or an exclusive interview.

He wants to do neither.

But he can’t shrink from his duties as the company representative, nor can he complain. He is stuck with Sky High’s helmet, responding to question after question for over two hours until his boss arrives and finally shoos away the media.

“We appreciate your concern and your support,” his boss announces. “But Heroes need to rest too. Please excuse us.”

He lets out a breath of happy relief as he changes into the clothes of Keith Goodman again in the locker room. He has to be careful when leaving, making sure to clip an employee badge on his shirt so that he doesn’t stand out when he escapes the building.

It’s only when he takes the bus back home to Bronze Stage, ready to doze off in his seat, that he thinks about the fact that Kotetsu, and Kaede especially, must have seen him live on the giant telescreen.

~*

 

The house is dark when he returns. He tiptoes up the stairs to his room, not wanting to disturb anyone of their sleep, all the while his body dreams of a firm mattress and a thick pile of fuzzy blankets.

He turns on the light and startles to find Kotetsu and Kaede sleeping by sitting on the floor, their backs pressed against the side of Keith’s bed for support. Surrounding them are empty granola wrappers, Kotetsu’s phone, and a TV remote.

Keith bites his lip, knowing he should probably wake them both so they can sleep in proper beds. But it’s a rare moment to see the two of them so close and peaceful. He can’t help smile at the way Kaede tilts so that she curves around Kotetsu’s side, much like a kitten would around a mother cat.

He decides to take out his phone and snap a picture. He’ll save it for another time, when Kotetsu needs cheering up or feels homesick.

“Hey…” he whispers, crouching beside them. He nudges Kotetsu gently.

“Nnngh… wha… is Keith back yet?” Kotetsu murmurs, his eyes still closed.

“I’m here,” he says. “You probably want to sleep in your own bed though. It’s much nicer.”

Kotetsu slowly rouses awake.

“Huh… when’d you come back?” he asks, sitting up straighter. “Saw you on TV… Kaede got worried since you were gone so long.”

He feels a pang of guilt.

“Sorry. I wanted to come home sooner,” he says.

“Nah, it’s okay. I know how it gets. Don’t blame you for getting stuck with those crappy reporters.”

Kotetsu stretches his legs, then his arms, before scooping up his daughter, who is somehow still dead to the world, her soft brown hair falling over her shoulders.

Keith follows him through the hallway and helps by holding the door open. He lingers outside, not wanting to intrude, while Kotetsu gently tucks Kaede into bed. It’s an odd, but beautiful sight, to see Kotetsu bending over, brushing the stray hair away from his daughter’s face, quietly savoring a moment of parenthood.

He’s about to leave to give them the privacy they deserve, when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Hey, Keith.” He knows that means he needs to wait, because Kotetsu wants to say something. So when Kotetsu finishes adjusting Kaede’s pillows and leaves the room, shutting the door with a click, he listens attentively.

But rather than jump into a conversation about today’s crime, or about what happened after they separated, all Kotetsu says is,

“Thanks. I really owe you one.”

He shakes his head, knowing no favors are needed.

“You’re a Hero, but you’re a father too,” Keith says. “As long as Kaede’s here, I’ll protect both of you.”

Kotetsu raises his eyebrow.

“Protect _both_ of us? I see you’ve gotten cocky from winning last year, King of Heroes.”

He lifts his right arm, the green lines of his call band glimmering.

“Who taught you how to fight crime, huh? Who trained with you?”

“W-well, yes, but I mean — ”

“And now you’re Mr. Bigshot, thinking you can save everyone all the time, hmm?”

Keith wishes he wouldn’t blush easily, because already waves of heat seem to be rolling off his cheeks.

“N-no, not at all! I just wanted to — ”

Kotetsu smirks.

“You wanted to what?”

“I… wanted to…” Keith trails off, confused. He’s tired, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. “I wanted Kaede to have her father again.”

Kotetsu lets out an amused exhale, and takes five quick steps toward Keith. Then, without warning, he gives a sharp flick of his finger to Keith’s forehead.

“You don’t have to worry about things like that. That’s my job, remember?” He comes closer, so that there are only a few inches of space between them. Keith, now much more awake due to the sting, can’t help but avert his eyes shyly. “You big dolt.”

To soothe the red mark forming on Keith’s skin, Kotetsu touches it gently with the back of his hand.

“You never take care of yourself first,” Kotetsu says softly. He speaks as though he’s talking to himself in a dream. “Sometimes I think you’d rather break to pieces than make anyone unhappy.”

Keith shivers as the touch disappears.

“But then who’s supposed to protect you? To stop you from hurting yourself…” Kotetsu gazes at him with a look that sends chills through Keith’s flesh and makes his nerves quiver.

“I want to keep Kaede safe too,” Kotetsu says. His hand brushes across his call band. “But I don’t want you to burn out either.”

He begins to smile.

“That’s why…” He digs something out of his pocket, a silvery, stiff-looking cloth. “I've got to look after you.”

He hands Keith the material, which he realizes is a mask. Similar in style to Kotetsu’s own disguise, except the edges are rounded, not jagged, and the color is silver with a hint of sky blue around the eyes.

“It’s cool, isn’t it? Good for slipping out of those media things,” Kotetsu says. “It was supposed to be your Christmas present, but you’ll probably need it before that.”

Keith admires how soft and smooth the fabric is, how flexible and elegantly made the design seems to be. He wants to keep it forever and carry it with him everywhere. It’s a piece of Wild Tiger, in a way, and yet it smells of exactly of Kotetsu, the citrus scent rising from the folds.

It’s perfect.

Perhaps it’s obvious how much he likes it from the way his fingers cling to his present, but he has to say it out loud, to tell Kotetsu,

“I love you.”

His brain freezes as a steel trap strikes his tongue mute. He hadn’t meant to say that. He _meant_ to say he loved the gift, but now. Now that he can’t take back the words, even though he’s sworn to himself he’d never reveal this to Kotetsu, sworn he’d keep his emotions in check, and —

He flinches, stumbling away, his grip on the mask turning clammy as he watches Kotetsu’s mouth fall open in speechless shock.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to…”

Kotetsu stares at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry!”

He pivots on his heel, fleeing down the staircase, not caring that John’s woken up and started barking or that he’s probably making too much noise, because he _needs to leave_. His blood is rushing to his head, making him dizzy, and he can feel the familiar, dark heat of his powers, igniting underneath his skin, ready to propel him far away, to somewhere he can disappear and not have to face Kotetsu’s inevitable pity.

Snow falls heavy on the roads, icing his shins and feet. The night is restless, the moon obscured by masses of clouds that reckon a coming storm. As Keith runs, the wind lances against his skin like shards of burning ice, but it is no match for the coldness cracking inside his chest.

~*


End file.
